


Armageddon Game

by AlulaSpeaks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sam Winchester's Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-01-31 15:10:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 57,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12684375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlulaSpeaks/pseuds/AlulaSpeaks
Summary: A year ago Dean watched Sam walk away from the life. A few months later Sam dropped off the radar completely, his last words to Dean a scribbled note.I just need some time. Don’t look for me. I’ll call if I need you.Now it's 2009 and Dean finds Sam locked in a warded cell, guarded by the Campbells. They say he's running with demons, that they call him the Boy King. They say Sam's up to something big. Dean and Bobby confront a caged Sam who is cold and distant and far too knowing. While everyone tries to tell Dean that the brother he knew is gone, Dean is determined to find the truth. Along the way he discovers angels, broken seals, a runaway apocalypse, and visions of another timeline that burned up his brother's brain.Now all Dean has to do is figure out what Sam's endgame is and how to stop it, or risk losing Sam forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the simplification and misuse of chess terms. All I know of chess is what I learned from internet dictionaries. 
> 
> This story fought me tooth and nail the whole way. More on that at the end. But for now let me say that incredible thanks go out to my patient artist, dreamsfromthebunker who had to endure my long absences due to travel, illness, and a busted modem and stayed kind throughout. Thanks also to PathosSam who offered encouraging words when they were most needed.
> 
> Be sure to check out dreamsfromthebunker's [awesome artwork](https://dreamsfromthebunker.tumblr.com/post/167348469645/armageddon-game-art-wincest-big-bang-2017) and leave some love:

**Armageddon Game: a single chess game guaranteed to produce a result, wherein white has more time on the clock, but black need only hold white to a draw to win.**

**Board Vision: the ability to see how the pieces move and interact on the chess board.**

**July 2006**

Sam's blood is a wild racing pulse in his fingertips. He can't believe they made it out of the apartment building, that their fireman ruse worked, or that their Dad is somehow mostly unharmed. It strikes him as too easy, but he hasn't got time to worry about that just now. He slams to the ground beneath the fire escape and side-steps Dean as he hauls Dad's arm over his shoulder. Sam has to get ahead of them and get the car ready.

As he crosses the mouth of the alley, Sam catches movement from the corner of his eye. He is taking the full brunt of the demon's tackle before he has time to react.

He goes down hard, scrambles to the side, gets a fist to his face for the trouble. His head is ringing from the first blow and he can't block the second. A burst of pressure, pain blooming behind it. His head cracks back into the pavement.

Dean comes running up from where he left Dad slumped against the wall, but the demon sends him flying and he crashes into a pile of garbage. Sam manages to get his hand up against the demon's chest, but the next blow catches him square in the face. The demon rears back, fist cocked and Sam is too dizzy and disoriented to do anything but pant. Blow after blow crashes into his face, sends his mind reeling.

Behind the demon, Dean is a black blur as he rises to his feet and aims the colt. The gunshot echoes through the street. The bullet explodes through the demon’s forehead, slamming into the pavement inches to the left of Sam’s temple, spraying Sam's face and open mouth full of blood and brains. The demon slumps down over Sam, blood running from the hole in its head to pool in the corner of Sam’s mouth, spill across his tongue. Sam spits and chokes, swallows convulsively so he can catch his breath.

Dean comes pounding up to Sam's side, shoves the demon off of him and hauls him to his feet and then they're off again. Getting Dad up and getting themselves out of there. Sam's face is a ruined, throbbing mass of pain, but it’s distant. He feels huge inside his skin. Flooded with adrenaline and power, something alien inside of him beyond his fear and racing heart. Something separate and growing. It's strange and discomfiting so he shakes the feeling off, shoves it into a box, pushing it to the back of his mind.

It will take a year for Sam to understand the significance of that moment. That he was never supposed to get that mouthful of blood and grit. Dean was supposed to take his shot from the car where he’d been thrown, the bullet passing through the side of the demon’s skull, not the front, not spraying Sam in his open, panting mouth with the blood of Azazel’s son. And it will be months after that realization before Sam accepts the full implications, the power he’s been given. Before Sam understands that the trajectory of one bullet can change everything. And Sam can work with change.


	2. Chapter 2

**Endgame: The third and last phase of the game, when there are few pieces left on the board.**

**September 2009**

 

Dean eases the Impala through the open gate in the chain-link fence, headlights cutting across the cracked concrete of the driveway. The hulking shapes of crumbling buildings loom in the dark, machinery of the abandoned factory like jagged teeth against the night sky. Dean turns the Impala around a corner and his headlights light up Bobby, squinting as he leans against the side of his truck. Dean’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel eases and he forces himself to take a breath and slide the car into park.

“Been waiting long?” Dean says as he steps out of the car and slides his gun into his belt, under his jacket.

“Ten minutes, thereabouts,” Bobby says. “Knew I better haul ass to beat you here, otherwise I was like to get left behind.”

Dean snorts, but Bobby isn’t wrong. Dean is practically vibrating out of his skin with the need to keep moving.

Dean fiddles with his phone, flips it end over end in his palm. A bad nervous habit he’s only recently developed. He glances down at his phone, scrolls through his texts. There’s nothing new, but he scrolls through again anyway, eyes sliding over years old texts from Sam like they aren’t even there.

“Still no word from Ash?” Bobby asks.

“No.” Dean says. He tucks the phone away, avoids Bobby’s eyes.

“He’ll turn up again. He’s a paranoid bastard ever since the Roadhouse burnt down, you know that better than most. He’s probably just moving his gear and setting up at a new safe house.”

“Yeah, sure.” Dean says, and runs a hand over the back of his neck. Bigger fish and all that.

Sam is somewhere in this abandoned refinery. Dean can’t wait for Ash. No matter how much help his tech skills might be. Dean squares his shoulders and marches to the metal door built into the squat concrete building on the edge of the parking lot. He bangs his fist against the door. The hollow, clanging echo falls flat in the crisp night air.

"You sure about this?" Bobby asks.

"Hell no I'm not sure about this. But it’s Sam." Dean trails off, Sam a sore spot still after a whole year. Maybe more of one now than he was when he left.

"Yeah and if what they say about Sam is true, maybe you shouldn't be marching right into it," Bobby says, he tries to keep his tone even but Dean can hear the bitterness creeping in the edges. Bitterness like Dean feels.

Bitter about the fact that the fucking high-and-mighty Campbells were the ones to find Sam, to figure out what he was doing. To stop him. Dean still can't believe everything they're saying about Sam.

"That's a big freaking if, Bobby." Dean mutters.

The door swings open on creaking hinges to reveal a long hallway sloping gently downwards. There are two men, built like linebackers and wearing the typical hunter uniform of flannel, jeans, and a misanthropic scowl. Dean hasn’t seen them before, but they look like the type that the Campbells generally attract - an overabundance of muscle and an under-abundance of brains. One of them gives Dean a quick once over then shouts back over his shoulder.

“He’s here. And he brought company.”

“Well hello to you too, sunshine,” Dean says and gets a glare for his efforts.

Christian slips out of an open doorway down the hall to lean against the jamb. He picks at his nails with a wickedly curved belt knife and shoots Dean a glance from the corner of his eyes. Of all the Campbells, it had to be Christian. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“You got here quick.” Christian slides his knife into its sheath.

“Where’s my brother?” Dean says, struggling to keep his voice steady. He’s itching to break down every door standing between him and Sam, but there’s a right way to play this. And if there’s one thing that Dean learned from his short time running with the Campbells, it’s that they don’t appreciate any insinuation that they aren’t in perfect control.

“Guess you better come in,” Christian says and nods his head down the long concrete corridor. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb move aside to let them pass and then resume their post by the entry door.

Christian leads them down the hall, and Bobby falls in a half step behind Dean. Dean’s trying to pay careful attention to his surroundings but his mind keeps tripping over thoughts of Sam, sending his heart racing every time he does.

Dean takes a breath and focuses on counting doors, memorizing the path to Sam. They pass the room Christian came out of, and another on the left. Exposed pipes drip with condensation in the cool air. They pass a hall on the right a couple yards before the gentle slope of the passage angles sharply downward, leading further underground.

Dean glances down the side hall as they pass. The first doorway down the hall is cracked open, blue light of monitors spilling out across the floor. A shadow moving across it as someone shifts in the room. Dean catches Bobby’s eye and Bobby nods to let Dean know he’s seen it too.

“Where are Gwen and Mark?” Dean asks.

“Busy,” Christian says and falls back into silence. Dean’s about to push for more information when Christian stops abruptly and turns to face them.

“Just so we’re clear. This wasn’t my idea, and I don’t think it’s a particularly good one. I don’t trust you around Sam and I don’t think you can give us any useful intel. Bringing you in is just going to muddy the waters and put us all at risk. Besides, if you had any insight into Sam, you would have found him a year ago.”

“See Christian, this is why I stopped running with you,” Dean says, unable to stop himself, a hot flush of anger rising up his neck, “you’ve got your head shoved too far up your ass to know when to ask for help.”

“And here I thought it was because you couldn’t keep up.” Christian turns on his heel, leading them further into the complex.

“And here I thought you were going to play this smart,” Bobby says.

“Whatever,” Dean grumbles and starts after Christian.

There is a heavy, metal door at the end of the corridor that looks like Bobby's panic room on steroids. Two guards stand on either side, shotguns in hand. The floors and walls are dirty and familiar in the way that every hunt seems to cross through some place like this. Old, forgotten, worn down. Darkness lingering in the corners and stirring up some deep kind of dread from Dean's gut. To think that Sam is locked away in this place like some monster, something that Dean would kill just as soon as look at, has a cold sweat breaking out across the back of his neck.

There's a small portal in the door at eye level, protected by a heavy metal hatch that creaks as Christian opens it to check inside. Dean tries to find an angle that lets him see into the cell without looking like that's what he's doing. All he can see is white fluorescent light. Christian slams the hatch closed and steps back, face caught in a look somewhere between disdainful and wary.

"Well, won't this be a fun little reunion." Christian mutters under his breath.

He nods to the guards and unbolts the door. It grates on its hinges, swinging out to reveal the room within through inch by inch of stark white light. Dean can see the edge of a huge circular room, metal walls. It must be one of the old petrochemical tanks from the defunct factory, half underground, half above. The ceilings soar 50 feet into the air. The thing must be at least 50 feet in diameter, too, judging by the curve in the small slice of the room Dean can see. Every inch of space, from the walls to the floor and ceiling, is covered in thick, black-painted sigils.

The door swings wider, it’s slow arc revealing a sink set back a good 30 feet from the door at the far side of the room, a toilet behind a partition. The edge of an iron-framed bed. Then a white-clad knee. Whatever else the swinging door reveals is lost to Dean because his eyes are snagged on Sam.

 _Sam_ who Dean let walk away from hunting. Sam who disappeared into thin air. Sam whose last words to Dean were scrawled across a gas station receipt and left in an empty apartment where Sam was supposed to be restarting his normal life. _I just need some time. Don’t look for me. I’ll call when I’m ready._

Blood rushes through Dean’s ears and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound, because it’s been too fucking long since he’s seen his brother.

Sam sits in the middle of the cot, wearing white scrubs. His bare feet are on the floor, palms resting casually on his thighs. His posture is perfectly straight, composed and powerful, as if he expected them, summoned them to him. Dean's stomach lurches toward his throat.

When Sam sees him, he blinks slow. Surprised? Expectant? God, Dean can't tell. He never can't tell, but then it's been a year. He’s wrong footed and off balance, and desperate to get to Sam’s side. He holds himself back, careful of looking too eager, too invested too soon.

Sam tilts his head, smirk dripping slow across his face, says, "Now Dean, you're not on my approved list of visitors."

Bobby lets out a heavy breath, steps forward and out of the shadows behind Dean.

"And Bobby, too," Sam says. "Well, isn't this a 'fun little reunion'." Sam's eyes zero straight in on Christian, grin all teeth, like he heard every word Christian said from over 30 feet away and through 12 inches of steel.

"Fuck," Christian hisses. "Have fun with your creepy-ass brother. See if you can't figure out what the hell kind of game he’s playing. You’ve got five minutes."

Dean swallows against the flood of sour saliva in his mouth and steps into the cell. Bobby follows, his presence about the only thing keeping Dean steady on his feet. The door creaks closed behind them, bolts sliding home with a final clank.

Dean hovers by the entrance, taking in the room. He’s standing in an enormous devil’s trap, and not the quick and dirty version they use when hunting. It’s a textbook perfect Key of Solomon, each symbol painted with careful precision. There’s even small, flowing script running the length of the inside of the first circle which Dean’s never seen before.

It’s a twin to the devil’s trap further in the room, where Sam’s bed sits. All of his amenities are carefully placed within its borders. The sink and it’s small mirror attached to the chest-high concrete partition that separates the toilet from view. A length of chain lies coiled under the bed. One end shackled to Sam’s ankle, one end bolted to the floor. Just long enough to pace the circumference of the devil’s trap and no further.

“Don’t be shy, come on in.” Sam says, the barest hint of amusement in his voice. “What brings you to my humble corner of the world?”

“They think you're possessed.” Dean blurts, mind still reeling from the sight of his brother chained like a dog.

“If I were possessed, why would they chain me up?” Sam lifts his left ankle, rattles the heavy chain cuffed around it. “Why not let the devil's trap do it's job?”

“There are demons out there that holy water can't touch. You've fought one. Who’s to say that there aren't ones that can bust right through a devil's trap,” Bobby says.

“Fair point, Bobby.” Sam smirks, half charming kid half smug douche bag. “But...” Sam said, nodding towards Dean, like they're still in a position to be finishing each other's sentences.

“Yeah, I'd be more concerned if I didn't know you had one of these.” Dean taps his chest just above his heart where his tattoo is hidden beneath his henley. “You still got yours, right Sam?”

“Sure, Dean.” Sam does a quick double tap over his own heart.

“Show me.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Don't you trust me, Dean?”

“You disappear for a year and show up in hunter jail? Forgive me for being skeptical. So just show me, Sam. And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me what the hell is really going on.”

“What and ruin the suspense?”

“Sam!”

“Alright, alright.” Sam pulls down the collar of his shirt revealing the thick black lines of his tattoo. For a second Dean's chest loosens in relief, but it's short lived.

There's a thin white scar slashing across Sam's anti-possession tattoo. It's a neat bisection; just enough to render the mark utterly useless. All around his tattoo, peaking out from beneath Sam’s collar, Dean can see the ends of at least a half dozen thin, white, surgical scars. Sam’s chest must be covered in them.

“See, still there.”

“You in the habit of lying now, Sam?” Dean chokes out, because he's trying to make everything fit in his head, but the edges don't line-up. His Sam and this Sam? They don't fit. He needs more information.

“I wasn't lying. It's still there. Never said it was intact.”

“Christo,” Bobby says without missing a beat.

Sam blinks, but his eyes stay clear. He smooths the collar of his shirt back into place. Sighs, “Really, Bobby?”

“It was worth a shot.” Bobby shrugs, feigning casual, but he's tense all over.

“If, that's all you came for, I would really like to get back to enjoying the view.” Sam spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the expanse of the empty room, the walls covered in runes and symbols that Dean doesn't even recognize. “I mean it's great to see you and all, thanks for stopping by, but I'm pretty sure visiting hours are over.”

There's something eerie about this Sam. All his earnestness gone, none of his explosive anger. Just cold, calm, and disconcerting.

“Oh, we’re not done yet,” Dean says.

“I think we are,” Sam says. “Knock, knock.”

“Wha-” Two loud clangs bang through the room, cutting Dean off. Dean turns to find one of the guards opening the door, fist pressed against the metal where he banged to let them know he was coming in.

“Time’s up,” he says and when Dean makes no sign of moving, he swings his rifle into view, patting the stock. Not a suggestion, then. As Dean heads for the door, he notices two security cams mounted on the wall above the door and trained on Sam. Dean casts one last look over his shoulder to see Sam sitting preternaturally still, a knowing smile curving his lips.

 

…

 

Dean storms down the hall, footsteps thundering against the cold concrete, heading for the room where he saw the glow of monitors. He wants the footage from those cameras.

Bobby's right behind him, probably on the same page still. Bobby probably as hungry for more information as Dean is. Christian comes pounding down the hall behind them, hot-foots it to get around in front and block their path.

“Where do you think you're going? We need to talk about what you got from Sam.”

“Seriously? You gave me five minutes.” Dean shoulders his way past Christian and flicks a look back to see Bobby doing the same. “Stay out of my way,” Dean warns and continues on.

Fingersgraze the back of his jacket, but they don't grab on. Which is good because Dean is itching for someone to pop in the face and Christian is the perfect candidate.

“We saw the cameras, Christian,” Bobby says. “We passed the monitors on the way in. I'd say it's a pretty safe bet you don't need us to recount a thing. You might as well follow us there, cause there's nothing that's gonna stop Dean getting to that room right now.” And Dean, not for the first or last time in his life, thanks whatever is out there for the existence of Bobby Singer.

Dean's another ten feet down the hall before he hears them both start walking again. He swings a left down a side corridor and shoulders open the first door on the right. Gwen is there with Mark. They’re both hunched over one of the monitors, shoulders a wall so Dean can’t see what’s got them so engrossed. The screen next to it’s in perfect view and shows Sam sitting placidly in his cell, staring right at the camera with a smirk on his face that’s so cold it makes Dean’s stomach turn. The timestamp on the bottom reads 00:57:31 and the seconds keep ticking, so it’s live.

“I want all the footage of Sam that you've got,” Dean says.

“Dean, Bobby.” Gwen greets and turns away from the monitors and Christian makes his way over to Mark, slipping into her place. He flashes a look over his shoulder, sees Dean watching and leans in close over Mark's shoulder, blocking his view of the screen

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Gwen says and Dean’s brain threatens to short circuit with the spark of disbelief that follows.

“You wouldn’t have called us here if you didn’t need our help,” Bobby reasons.

Dean leaves Bobby to handle it, because the way that Christian and Mark are huddled together is pinging his radar. He sidles over to listen in on their whispered conversation.

"Any change?" Christian asks.

"No nothing. Least ways, not yet," Mark says and leans in closer to the screen.

"Told you this was a waste of time," Christian mutters.

Dean clenches his jaw against the frustration rising up in him. And turns his attention back to Gwen.

"– can't help if you won't give us anything to go on," Bobby's saying, but Dean cuts him off.

"You didn't bring me here to help with Sam. You were never planning to share your intel." Dean says, angry and spoiling for a fight. "You were what, just going to send me in there a few times, find out if seeing me would shake anything loose from Sam?"

"Dean," Gwen sighs, "it's not as simple as that."

Christian scoffs and turns around to perch on the edge of the table. "Oh it's exactly that simple. Your judgement can't be trusted where your little bro's concerned, everyone knows that. And even if that weren't the case, Sam was running with demons. And not low level flunkies, either. More like Hell's elite. What's to say you aren't in on it."

"Bullshit," Dean snarls, making a move to get in Christian's face, but Bobby throws out a hand and Dean puts on the brakes.

"That's a hell of an accusation. You got any proof? Or are you working on rumor, like every other godforsaken gossip of a hunter." Bobby says, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing Christian with the don't-jerk-me-around look that's shut Dean up on more than one occasion.

"We've got a source." Christian says, sounding smug. "They've been keeping tabs on your boy, gathering intel. Lining up his movements with demon sign. It don't paint a pretty picture."

"It's more than that though," Mark says. "We saw it. When we tracked him down in Detroit, he was in a demon war zone. And half of them were watching his back."

"They called him the Boy King," Gwen says, quiet and resigned.

Dean's stomach drops like a lead weight. That's not the first time he's heard that name. After Sam nearly died in Cold Oak, when his nightmares got real bad, he used to mutter in his sleep and there was that demon, Casey. But it doesn't matter what they saw or what their source says, they don't know Sam like Dean does. Or did.

"So you've got some mysterious source and one personal encounter. What about when you looked through his stuff?" Dean asks.

Christian shoots Gwen a shifty look and Dean lets a slow smirk slide across his face.

"Or didn't you find it?”

"We looked," Gwen says, "no luck."

"Seems to me like you all could use some ground truthing on your intel." Bobby says. "And there's no one out there who knows Sam like Dean does."

Dean nods, catching Bobby's drift. "Let's make a deal. If Bobby and me can bring you fresh intel, then you read us in on your little operation."

Mark stands up, crosses his arms over his chest. "It would have to be good intel, something we haven't seen before."

"Something that's actually useful," Christian says.

"In exchange, we get everything you've got on Sam. All your source’s intel." Dean says, ignoring Christian and looking Mark in the eye.

Mark nods and holds out his hand. Dean shakes on it.

“This is a mistake,” Christian says.

“Shut up, Christian” Gwen sighs. She hands Dean a plastic grocery bag weighted down with what looks like clothes. “This is everything Sam had on him when we found him. Maybe it can help.”

Dean takes the bag and nods at Gwen, his throat too tight to answer. The clothes still smell like Sam.

"Alright then," Bobby says, guiding Dean from the room. "We'll be in touch."

 

…

 

Dean stalks into the motel room behind Bobby, slams the door closed. The shock of seeing Sam again after so long is wearing off and anger is rising up in its place.

“Remind me why we aren’t going back there and breaking Sam out?” Dean asks.

“Because, Dean,” Bobby says with a roll of his eyes, “we need their intel. And based on the rumors we’ve been hearing, half the hunter community is out for Sam’s blood. Imagine if they heard he escaped from the Campbells. And if there is something going on with Sam we need it contained.” Bobby grabs an old, spiral-bound notebook, rips out some paper and holds it out to Dean. “Now let’s get to work.”

"What's this for?" Dean asks.

"Just take it, would you?" Dean snags the paper and Bobby sits down at the little table nestled in the corner of the room.

"I'll tell you one thing for sure. The Campbells may be smart hunters, and they may have a lot of family history to call on, but there's no way they put together the warding in Sam's cell." Bobby tosses Dean a pen then leans over his notepad and starts sketching out symbols. "They don't even know what Sam's been doing or who he’s been working with for sure.That kind of warding isn't something you just throw together and hope it keeps out whatever comes. It takes precise planning. It takes time, and by all accounts, they only set-up at the refinery about a month ago."

"You think someone else made the plans for that room, told them what symbols to put where."

"I do. Probably whatever source they were on about. And I don't think the Campbells bothered to question too much as to why. So if we can crack some of these symbols, figure out what they're meant to keep out, then we might be able to find enough intel to trade. So start drawing every symbol you remember."

Dean sits down at the table and picks up his pen. Neither of them mention the obvious. That the warding is keeping something in instead.

Half an hour later, Dean's got smudges of black ink on his hand and not a lot to show for it, only a few vaguely remembered symbols. His mind keeps snagging on images of the giant devil's traps, the scriptwork around the edge that he’d never seen before.

"Bobby, you remember those devil's traps?" Dean asks. "There was something different about them."

"Hmm," Bobby hums, head buried in a book as he searches for the symbols he's drawn. He's got three full pages of them to Dean's one. "Yeah, a full Key of Solomon. Not the shorthand ones we usually use."

"It wasn't just that," Dean says. "There was something else about it, but I can't put my finger on it."

"Well," Bobby says, snagging a book from the middle of a pile without lifting his head, "better get started figuring it out."

He drops the heavy tome on the table in front of Dean. Durshawl’s _Treatise on The Magics of Containment._ Fun. Dean sighs and starts reading.

 

…

 

Two hours later, Dean’s got a couple paragraphs of notes that say modifying devil’s traps to be more specific is possible but nothing explaining what that means. Dean slams the book shut, folds his arms across the top of it. It's twice as thick as most dictionaries and ten times as boring. He slumps over the cover and grinds his forehead into the back of his wrist.

In the cradle of his arms, the air is stuffy and smells of dusty libraries and book mold. A smell that always reminds him of Bobby’s house and of Sam. He can picture 14 year old Sam, body finally growing into his giant hands and feet, surrounded by piles of Bobby’s borrowed books at the kitchen table of whatever house they were squatting in that week.

"Research was always Sam's thing." Dean says into the crook of his elbow. He’s hardly let himself think of Sam this last year, but now he can’t seem to stop.

"You did fine hunting without him," Bobby says. And, yeah, Dean got by, because he's a damn good hunter. Still, fine isn't the word Dean would choose. Fine implies he was ok with going it alone. The truth is he never got past the empty feeling that settled into all the places that Sam used to occupy. The way the road seemed longer and the nights darker without Sam by his side.

Dean sighs, lifts his head to prop his chin on his arm. "That's different. Digging into a case, making connections, finding the pattern, yeah I can do that. But this esoteric crap was always Sam's wheelhouse."

"Takes a certain amount of patience," Bobby agrees as he turns another page with pointed care.

"We aren't getting anywhere here. Mark said they caught Sam when he was in the middle of some demon throwdown. We know they never found his stuff."

"You think he was staying somewhere nearby? They said they checked."

"Yeah, but you said yourself that they don't know Sam like I do. If he wanted to stay under the radar he was probably squatting somewhere."

"And I expect you think you can waltz right in and find what the Campbells missed, pick up some more clues?"

"It's worth a shot. So far all we got are wards written in some language we can't identify, some bullshit rumors, and Sam's pocket change from a week ago.” Dean nods toward the bag tossed on the far bed, “Hell, Sam's favorite knife isn't even here."

Bobby rolls his eyes. "Alright, go. But don't expect to find some magic decoder ring that's going to clear everything up. Whatever this is, it's big and whatever you find might not be too flattering for Sam."

"Bobby," Dean starts, feeling angry and bullheaded.

Bobby raises a steadying hand, stops Dean's protests in their tracks. "Now don't get your panties in a twist. I don't want to believe it anymore than you do, but we can't go into this with our heads up our asses. It might be they're right, or it might be that Sam didn't know what he was getting into. Maybe none of us know Sam like we think we do."

"Yeah. I'm starting to get that." Dean mumbles as he slides his hand back through his hair.

"Just go already, see what you can find. I'll stay here and hit the books."

Dean pulls his jacket on and grabs his duffel from the foot of his bed. He's got his phone out and Gwen's number dialed in when he hears Bobby call, "And try not to get yourself killed," before the motel room door bangs shut behind him.

 

…

 

When Dean takes the exit for Detroit, the sun is rising over the distant horizon, limning the buildings in white gold. Pale orange bleeds from the east until it soaks into the featureless blue of the western sky. It's pretty, or it should be, but something in Dean is left shuddering. Crossing the city limits is exactly like running through an angry ghost. Like the real world is half a step behind him and it kept a hold of his guts while the rest of him lurched away, cold and empty. The early morning road is quiet and Dean sits with the wrong-feeling until it burns out of him when the sun crests the buildings and shines blinding light into the Impala.

Dean navigates the streets at a slow crawl, checking the folded map propped against the steering wheel. It's Sunday morning, so there isn't much in the way of traffic. Even still, when he pulls up on Concord in front of the old Packard plant, the street is the kind of empty that makes Dean feel like he walked into a ghost town. Piles of concrete and rebar nearly two stories high sit on the grounds of the plant and act like windbreaks, a catchall for every piece of refuse the city wind can carry. The gaping eyes of empty doors and broken-out windows stare black as demon eyes from the sprawling complex. Motor City decay hangs heavy and oily in the morning light. It's a hell of a place for a demon showdown.

Dean parks and walks around the front of the car, pats the Impala's hood absently while he scans the area. There's a rustle and creak from across the street. When Dean turns to check it out, there's an old man in ragged clothes wheeling a cart behind him. He's making his way towards Dean, cautious and with half an eye on the plant grounds. A cardboard sign lays across the top of his cart. _Angels are listening_ it says in blocky, black letters.

“Wouldn't go in there if I were you,” he says when he joins Dean on the sidewalk. He leaves his cart a respectable distance from the Impala, and gives her an appreciative nod. Dean is inclined to like him.

“Why's that?”

“This place ain't right. Not that it ever was, but something changed. It don’t feel right. Used to be folks came here all the time. Gawking at the way people's dreams fall apart. Now it’s just another place the yuppie photographers won’t go near anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Hard to say. Started with people going missing. Most folks steered clear then, but not everyone. I watched a kid go in there on a dare. He got halfway to one of the buildings before he turned green and started puking.”

“When did it start?” Dean scans the buildings, trying to figure out where to begin his search. There's a pentagram in red spray paint below the second story window two buildings down from where he parked.

“About a month ago.” The guy answers. He's watching Dean examine the place with wary intensity.

“You see anything else?”

“Nah. I only come around here once a month or so.”

“Thanks, man.” Dean reaches into his pocket and fishes out a fiver. He hands it the the man, who hesitates before accepting it.

“No problem.” the man says. “This is a beautiful machine. An Impala?”

“A ‘67,” Dean says.

The man’s eyes widen and he nods at Dean. “You’ve taken good care of her…” he says, voice trailing off expectantly.

It takes Dean a second to figure out what he’s waiting for, but when he does he smiles and offers his hand for the man to shake. “Name’s Dean.”

The man’s grip tightens for a moment and his eyes flicker over to his cart. He clears his throat and lets go, “Good to meet you Dean,” he says, a strange emphasis on Dean’s name. “Still going in?”

Dean nods, turning his attention back to the broken concrete and fading graffiti of the Packard plant.

“I hope you find who you're looking for, but I wouldn't count on it.”

Dean wonders how the man knows he's looking for someone, but he guesses there have been enough disappearances here to explain it. Demons need bodies for their showdowns after all.

 

…

 

A strange feeling seeps out of the crumbling buildings, a wrongness. It smells of sulfur, kicking up Dean's adrenaline enough to make the world sharper. It's not much different than how Dean feels on a hunt, but it would be enough to put civvies on edge. Dean follows the feeling to the building with the pentagram graffiti. Stunted trees grow on the roof of the building, and when Dean walks inside, a gaping hole in the second story shows their roots dangling from cracks in the ceiling. Water drips from the roots to splatter in pools across the dusty floor.

Dean knows he's picked the right building when the first stains of blood he finds turn into a trail and lead to a giant devil's trap spray painted on the floor. There's a scorch mark in the center, easily five feet wide, like the flames of Hell itself reached up to drag something back to the pit. Around the devil's trap are more of the same markings that are etched into the walls of Sam's cell. Dean snaps a few photos with his phone before moving on.

Spent shotgun shells are scattered across the floor, starting from a doorway on the other side of the building. They're clustered there, then spread out along the walls. Salt rounds probably. This must be where the Campbells entered, then split up to flank the action at the devil's trap. Dean follows the trail to the right, around some concrete pillars and wooden pallets. There is an indent in the wall two feet wide and three feet long, a torso mark like a body got thrown there. Dean's been thrown into enough walls to recognize the signs. But those were drywall and this is concrete.  There's no blood and no body, so demon fighting demon, probably.

The signs get harder to read the further Dean goes. There's another splatter of blood against the back wall of the building, under a broken-out window. Dean runs his fingers along the window sill. They come away yellow with sulfur dust. There's a boot print on the wall, smeared in blood. Someone tried to boost themselves out. It's a big print. Big enough to be Sam's, maybe.

A glint of light catches Dean’s eye and he crouches to get a closer look. Kicked among the shards of grimy glass is Sam's favorite knife, the one with the curved blade that Dean gave him on his sixteenth birthday. Dean reaches for it without thinking, anxious to get his hands on it, and a piece of glass slices across his palm. He hisses and pulls his hand back. There’s a shard stuck right next to his lifeline and he digs it out and throws it aside, palm bleeding sluggishly. He pulls his hand into the sleeve of his coat, uses it to brush the glass away so he can get at Sam's knife.

It's cool in his grip, the blade crusted in blood. Dean thinks about how Sam was carrying himself back in that cell – smug, knowing, powerful. But whatever happened here, Sam was running. From demons and maybe with demons, doesn't matter. Because whatever else it means, it means there is something out there more powerful than the monster they say Sam has become. A heavy weight settles in the pit of Dean’s stomach.

A sound like a hundred bird wings flutters behind Dean, at once echoey and muffled. It sets the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He swivels in his crouch, to find a dark-haired man in a beige trench coat, arms loose by his sides. He tilts his head like a curious dog, piercing blue eyes staring unblinkingly at Dean.

“Dean Winchester. You have been unusually difficult to find.” He says in a voice that sounds raspy and raw, almost painful.

“You know,” Dean says and stands carefully, wonders if he can make it back to the devil's trap in the center of the building, “when a stranger knows my name, it tends to be a bad sign. I have a bit of a reputation.” 

He can’t go back the way he came, the newcomer blocking his path, so Dean takes a step to the side, keeping the wall at his back and moving down the hall behind him.

“I am aware,” Trench Coat says. He takes a step forward for every step Dean takes back, maintaining the distance between them.

Dean reaches into his pocket for the holy water flask. “Chirsto.” Dean says, and the guy finally blinks, but his blue eyes don't change.

“I am no demon.”

“Pretty sure you're not a man either,” Dean says, moving steadily back along the wall. “So, what are you?”

“I am Castiel. An Angel of the Lord.”

Dean can't help it, he scoffs. “Angels don’t exist.”

Castiel’s brows draw together and his voice drops into a rumble. “You believe in demons, in hell, yet your faith ends at Heaven?”

“I’ve seen plenty of Hell and demons,” Dean says, “but angels? If they do exist, they suck at their jobs.”

Castiel’s jaw ticks in annoyance. And yeah, Dean tends to have that effect on people. “It is no matter. You will see soon enough. You are a righteous man, Dean Winchester, you are needed in the fight.”

“What, this fight? Hate to break it to you, but I think we’re a little late.” Dean gestures to the ruined warehouse around them. As he sweeps his hand wide, he half turns. He means to check for exits, clock his six, but something on the north wall catches his eyes. There's an entire section of concrete wall that's punched in as if from an impact, rays of soot shooting out from the edges. Inside the circle, on the floor and bent up the wall at strange angles are the sooty silhouettes of three bodies, flat and smudged like atomic bomb shadows.

“What the hell?” Dean breathes.

Castiel turns to look at the wall with Dean. “Lilith,” he says.

Dean knows Lilith. A demon big wig, by all accounts and one of the couple dozen demons that managed to claw their way out of the hellgate. Dean had counted that night as a win for a long time. He knew there were hundreds of demons waiting to come bursting out into the world but between Ash’s intel and Sam knocking some sense into that Jake kid, team demon got their asses kicked. And Azazel got dead. Yeah, he had counted it a win. Until he learned about Lilith and that she had a hardon for Sam. But she dropped off the radar a couple months before Sam bailed, and Dean let himself believe it was over. Apparently not.

“A demon did that?”

“The first demon, yes. She is incredibly powerful.” Castiel looks at the flat, smudged outlines of what was once alive in a quiet, almost reverent way.

“What do you mean, first demon?” Dean asks.

“She is the first created, the first human soul Lucifer twisted into a demon.”

“You're telling me that demons were people once, and hey, guess what, the Devil is real? Man, you are a nutcase.” Dean swallows the lump in his throat. This is insane. It’s got to be bullshit. He wants it to be bullshit, but in a way it makes a certain kind of sense.

“No, I am an Angel of the Lord.”

“Right,” Dean sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. He glances over his shoulder, checks the distance to the devil’s trap and when he looks back, Castiel has frozen mid-step. He’s staring at a spot on the ground, more soot shadows that Dean hadn’t noticed before. This time, it’s in the shape of two sprawling wings.

Castiel’s shoulders stiffen and he walks further into the room, crouching by the wings. He reaches into a pile of broken concrete and pulls out a silver blade. Dean’s never seen anything like it. It’s as long as his forearm, it’s thin, tapered blade set in a round hilt. Castiel closes his eyes, brow furrowed in concentration as he holds the blade.

“Anna,” he whispers. He slides the blade up the sleeve of his trenchcoat and stands.

"Angel's are dying," Castiel says, eyes flashing with intent. "There is no time to waste. The Michael Sword is needed. You must come with me."

In the blink of an eye he disappears and reappears in front of Dean, crossing the twenty feet between them. His outstretched hand just inches from Dean’s shoulder.

Dean stumbles back, trips over his own feet, slipping out of reach of the angel's hand. His own hand, still bleeding from the cut across his palm, slams against the wall. A bright flash of blinding light sears across his vision, the sound of wind rushing through his ears. When he opens his eyes Castiel is gone. The warehouse is empty but for him and the ringing in his ears.

Dean looks to the wall where his bloody hand landed and sees a large blood sigil, flaking at the edges but still whole. The circle of the sigil is topped by a triangle and bordered on its edges by intricate runes, strong lines zig zag through the center. It's not something that Dean has seen before, but power thrums through it. Under his hand is another bloody handprint, a relic from the battle that ravaged the warehouse and ended with Sam locked in the Campbell's prison. Dean would know that handprint anywhere. The fingers are slimmer and longer than his own, the palm wider by a fraction.

Dean flexes his fingers against the wall feeling the dry blood beneath it. Sam’s blood. Sam’s handprint. The fine whorls of the thumbprint are disrupted by a triangular scar where Sam sliced his thumb while sharpening a knife when he was 10. Dean had cleaned the wound himself, held the flap of skin in place while he wrapped it tight, told Sam not to look away when the blood made him break out in a cold sweat. _Don’t look away, Sammy. You’ve got to face it, ok? Don’t look away._

The shrill ring of his phone startles Dean into action. He presses his fingers against the handprint one last time then fishes his cell out of his pocket. Bobby's name flashes on the screen and Dean answers with shaking hands.

"Bobby." Dean takes a breath, tries to smooth the roughness of his voice.

"Dean. I’ve got news. Some of these symbols, they're enochian."

"Enochian?"

"The language of the angels. Most of the sigils I've been able to identify are used like a kind of supernatural camouflage. Says here they’re used to ‘hide from the sight of heaven’s hosts.' So unless they’ve got some other sort of function, it seems like - and I feel crazy even saying this - angels might be a player."

"Yeah, uh, might doesn’t really cut it." Dean says, swallowing a manic laugh, "I think I just met one."

“Balls,” Bobby says.

 

...

 

Dean hangs up after filling Bobby in and glances around the warehouse. He can't afford to stay here much longer. There's no telling how long until that angel comes back. Dean pulls out his phone and starts taking pictures of the scene to look at later. He makes sure to capture the blood sigil in detail. It’s already come in handy once.

When he's done, Dean jogs out to the impala and slips into the driver's seat. He drives a couple blocks away and pulls into the parking lot of a strip mall, parking between two SUVs. He doesn’t know where the angel went or how they go about searching for someone, but Castiel said they’d been having trouble finding Dean and he hasn’t exactly been hiding this last year, so he banks on the bustle of everyday life, hoping for just enough camouflage that the Angel won't spot him right away if he comes looking.

He's got to find where Sam was staying, see if he can track down any more clues. He pulls out his laptop from the back and walks to the little cafe at the end of the strip mall. Inside he grabs a cup of coffee and settles in at a table in the back.

He starts searching for likely places that Sam might squat, but Detroit's slow decline has left plenty of buildings mouldering away, empty and ignored. There are too many options to search them all, so he's got to think like Sam. Where would Sam go? Where would he feel safe? Sam has always liked open places where he could breathe, stand at his full height and not feel cramped. The Packard plant with its wide-open emptiness springs to Dean's mind. Maybe he should have searched the whole complex. But he remembers the feeling there, the way it made his whole body stand at attention. That wouldn’t be somewhere you'd want to stay and the homeless man he ran into didn't mention anyone squatting there.

Now it’s just another place the yuppie photographers won’t go near anymore.

Another place, the man had said. Dean sits up in his chair and pulls up a new browser window. This time he searches for famous abandoned places in Detroit. The Packard plant is the first to show up but there are about six buildings on the list. Dean scrolls until the spire of a church catches his eyes. St. Agnes. Dean clicks through the photos, the wide open inside and the turned over pews. The graffiti where the altar once stood. That's it. That's where Sam was staying, he feels it in his bones. He looks up the address to be sure and finds it's only a ten minute drive from where he is.

Before he leaves, he shoots Ash another text. _Where are you? It’s important. Call me back._

 

…

 

Dean’s used to the abandoned clapboard churches of dying mining towns and one-room churches that slouch in their bones next to fallow fields in farm country. St. Agnes is a city church. St. Agnes is huge. The spire cuts into the sky. The building is multi-story and big enough to fit three small-town churches inside. From the front, it almost looks whole, as if it’s waiting for its congregation to return, but the plywood-covered doors speak of disuse and disregard.

Long practice has taught Dean that places like these are never as inaccessible as they seem at first glance. He circles the building, looking for a way in. There’s a side door that’s half off it’s hinges and Dean steps into the courtyard to head for it. A wrong-feeling washes over him. His stomach turns and a shudder chases itself down his spine. It’s that same feeling that he got crossing into the Packard plant, but stronger. A flash of concentrated dread. It can’t be a coincidence.

Dean pushes the feeling aside and forces the door open so he can slide inside. He follows the hallway past an office and finds himself standing at the doors to the nave. The hall echoes with his steps. The nave is long and dark, a few tumbled pews pushed against the walls. At the other end, the chancel and altar-less aspe are strewn with paper, morning light slanting in from the gaping doors to the side. It’s too open, too exposed - Sam would know better than to set-up camp there - so Dean ignores it.

The stairs to the balcony are on the left, and cool air drafts from their shadows to pebble Dean’s skin. He makes his way up onto the curved balcony and when he steps through the door he knows he’s found the right place. A sleeping bag is spread out against the far wall and Sam’s duffel, the same he’s used since he was sixteen, sits at the foot of it.

Dean’s heart lodges in his throat. This feels like Sam, even more than standing in front of him last night did. It’s such a familiar site. Sam’s bedroll, his duffel. A crate with a piece of plywood laid across it serving as a table, strewn with a pile of empty takeout containers and a local newspaper turned to the obituaries. Dean’s own sleeping bag could be laid out against the opposite wall. Sam could walk up the stairs any minute with a cup of coffee and a lead on some nasty they’re hunting.

But that’s not what this is, that’s not who they’ve been since Sam walked away from the life. Walked away from Dean. Dean swallows against the bitter taste in the back of his mouth. He needs to focus, move quick. He needs to get out of Detroit before that angel tracks him down.

Beside the makeshift table is a crate half-full of books. Dean runs his fingers over the spines. English, Latin, German, and a flowing script he doesn’t recognize. All of them old, any one of them a book that would find a home in Bobby’s library.

Next to the crate is an old metal wastepaper basket. It’s full of ash, probably used for warmth now that the nights are growing colder. But when Dean picks it up to tip it into the light, it’s heavier than he expects and in amongst the ashes, with the half melted lighter, a broken pair of glasses, and a ballpoint pen, are scraps of singed paper. He can make out a few words of latin on the biggest piece. Not something you’d use to start a fire when you’ve got a newspaper handy. Dean shoves the can into the crate with the books, just in case.

He moves over to the bedroll next, checks in the sleeping bag and under the blanket laid across it. He picks up the pillow and underneath is a knife Dean thought long gone. The bone handle, the serrated blade with the runes etched into it. It’s the demon knife that Sam took off that blonde demon who was hanging with the seven sins. The one that Bella stole when she nicked the colt. She said she hadn’t had a choice that it was that or die. Dean still hasn’t forgiven her for it.

Sam had guessed demons were involved, but Dean was never sure. Seeing it here, now, brings that bitter taste back in his mouth. He tucks the blade through his belt at the small of his back and moves on to Sam’s duffel. He half hopes to find the colt tucked into the clothes, but there’s nothing beyond Sam’s terrible taste in shirts, some jeans. The duffel is worse for wear and he runs his fingers along a few rips in the sides and bottom, to make sure nothing’s tucked away. He doesn’t feel anything on the first pass, but he’ll check it again later. He checks the bedding again, but decides to leave it behind. He shoulders the duffel, looking around the room one last time before grabbing the crate and heading out.

Dean leaves through the same side door, stepping into murky light. Thunder rumbles in the distance where heavy clouds crowd in from the west. Dean glances up at the sky, he’s still got time but the storm is rolling in quick. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye, streaking toward him fast.

Dean drops the crate, spins to the side. Catches the impact of a body smashing into him on his side instead of full in the back. He braces against the impact. But the person’s strong. Too strong. Dean crashes to the ground.

A man in an army surplus jacket and shit-kicker boots stands over him, grinning. His eyes blink beetle-black.

“Dean Winchester. It’s my lucky day. I hear you’ve been hard to find.”

“Yeah, I’ve been hearing that too,” Dean says and reaches behind him for the demon blade. “Funny thing is, I had no idea I was so popular.”

The demon raises its hand and a wall of power smacks into Dean forcing him flat to the ground with his hand caught under the small of his back.

“Well, you wouldn’t. But you’ve got quite a reputation in certain circles.”

“And why’s that?”

“Depends on who you ask. He’ll save us, he’ll damn us, he’s off limits.” The demon flashes Dean a snarling grin. “Personally, I never bought that shit.”

“Then what do you want with me?” Dean asks, mind racing.

“With you? You’re just a bonus. I came here to get dirt on the would-be King, your despotic little Sammy-boy. Should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Him and his fucking wards, man. Pain in the ass. Couldn’t even get in the place,” the demon says, and starts rummaging through the crate. “Thought I was crazy for sitting on my ass out here, but I didn’t have much of a choice. See, the trouble with being a low level grunt like me is that it's damn hard to play the middle. You’ve gotta have something real sweet to offer to join the winning side when the scales start to tip. I may not be a heavy hitter, but information? That I can do. Except for the damn wards. So I practiced my patience – it’s a virtue, you know – and in waltzes Dean Winchester, the vessel himself, bringing me everything I need.”

“You’re trying to play the middle between angels and demons? Sounds pretty desperate to me.”

“Angels and demons? Man, you really are clueless. I mean I heard you were benched but you really have no idea do you. No wonder Sam dropped you like dead weight. Angels.” The demon throws its head back in full-throated laughter. “Shit, I do not have a death wish. I’m still team demon, the only question was if I’d end up playing for Sam or the queen bitch. But since the door’s been opened and Sam’s MIA, smart money’s on her. Which suits me fine. Never liked Sam’s conditions anyhow.” He flips through the books one handed, keeping Dean pinned with the other.

Ok. So angels are definitely real. Sam has a rival for leading the demon ranks, and they all have some use for Dean. Great. That’s great. But even with all that, a flash of relief washes through Dean because whatever Sam’s mixed up in, he’s a part of it, too. Yeah, relief shouldn’t be his first reaction, but Dean’s never been exactly rational when it comes to Sam.

“Where the fuck is it,” the demon huffs in frustration and reaches for Sam’s duffel. He struggles with the zipper and his outstretched hand falters, the power holding Dean shifts and fades just enough for him to grip the handle of the knife. He takes a breath, gathers his strength and surges to his feet wielding the demon blade. The demon’s head snaps up, it’s eyes going wide as he spots the knife.

“Oh, shit.”

Dean lunges forward but the demon throws its head back, screaming as it smokes out. His vessel slumps down, and the column of black smoke streaks down the street.

Dean presses his fingers against the man’s pulse point. The veins twitch, fluttery and weak. Blood seeps into his shirt, old wounds opening without the demon to hold them closed. His pulse shudders to nothing beneath Dean’s fingers. Dean spares a moment to swipe his palm down the man’s brow, closing his eyes.

He grabs Sam’s duffel, slings it over his shoulder, shoves the spilled books back in the crate and jogs over to the Impala. He throws open the back door and shoves it all in the back seat.

That demon dumped a lot of information and most of it lines up with the Campbell’s story. It doesn’t look good but Dean doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter what the demon said, or what the Campbells think they know. They don’t know Sam like Dean does. He lays his hand on the top of Sam’s duffel and breathes. Whatever is happening, whatever Sam has gotten mixed up in, the answers are here. They have to be.

Dean looks back to the church, standing tall against the thunder-dark clouds. Dean climbs into the front seat, starts the Impala and turns her nose toward the highway, holding the wheel tight as he leaves the city and drives straight into the storm.

 

…

 

**Middlegame: the part of a chess game after the pieces have been developed when players attempt to gain and exploit positional and material superiority**

**August 2009**

 

Sam steps into the courtyard, the line of warding flashing orange as he crosses it. He can feel it tug against him, the pull of resistance to his impurity and the power he carries. It zings along his nerves. It doesn’t stop him, can’t stop him, but it will dissuade civilians from crossing and hold back all but the strongest angels and any demon without his express invitation. That’s more than enough. He can take care of the rest.

St. Agnes rises out of the morning fog in spires of crumbling brick. He crosses the cracked cement, stepping over the plants bursting through the concrete, shoots of grass and rambling vines. He steps through the blown-out door and into the echoing emptiness of the church. The buttresses hold up the dark of the high, soaring ceilings where the night’s shadows still cling. He turns his back on the front of the church. He’s read the graffiti already. He knows their messages.

_Pray for us sinners._

_He is coming._

_When?_

Sam flicks his eyes down the cavernous length of the nave. On the balcony overlooking the far end, Lilith stands silhouetted against the broken windows. The weak, milky light catching in the curls of her straw-colored hair.

Sam rolls his shoulders back, tilts his head until his neck cracks. Nervous energy slips up his spine and he takes in a long, slow breath. Detroit. It was always going to happen in Detroit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Endgame**

**September 2009**

 

Dean slides the Impala into park next to Bobby’s truck and climbs out. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, senses on high alert. He scans the parking lot. He can see the desk clerk through the glass doors, staring at the tv on the counter, but nothing else moves. He’s been going non-stop since Gwen called back, so it’s no wonder he’s paranoid. Still, he glances around as he gathers Sam’s stuff from the back of the car and shoulders his way through the motel door.

Bobby’s sitting at the table, half buried behind a stack of books from his trunk. Dean kicks the door closed and thunks the crate of books down in front of Bobby. He let’s Sam’s duffel slide to the floor as he slumps into a chair.

“What’ve we got here?” Bobby stands and starts going through the crate. He pulls out the trashcan, raises an eyebrow at the ashes and sets it under the table. He starts pulling out the books, laying them out on the table.

“Found Sam’s stuff. He was squatting in an old church. He had this under his pillow.” Dean pulls out the demon knife and Bobby’s eyes widen.

“Never expected to see that again.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. A demon jumped me when I was leaving. Said a lot of crap about there being different demon factions. One lead by the ‘queen bitch’ and one-” Dean falters, scrubs a hand over his face. “One lead by Sam.”

“Lines up with what the Campbells said,” Bobby nods, mouth pressing into a thin line. “The queen bitch? You thinking Lilith?”

“Don’t know,” Dean shrugs, “maybe. She was out for Sam, before. Saw him as competition. But that’s not what’s got me worried. The demon, he called me the vessel.”

“Could be he was looking to upgrade, possess you instead.”

“Not _a_ vessel, Bobby, _the_ vessel. He said something about some people thinking I’d save them some I’d damn them. And that angel wanna be, Castiel, he called me the Michael Sword. I’ve got no idea what’s going on here and I’m starting to feel like it’s got a little more to do with me than I’m comfortable with.”

“I hear you. What do you think it means?” Bobby asks. He pulls out another set of books and runs his fingers along the spines before setting them aside.

Dean laughs and rubs at his forehead, but the tension building behind his eyes won’t budge. “I think that my fucking head hurts, I haven’t slept in twenty hours, and I have no idea what the hell is going on. I don’t know what any of it means.”

“Well there ain’t much that can be done about it right now and you’re no good to me burnt out. You need - huh” Bobby’s hand freezes over the next book in the crate. He pulls it out and starts flipping through it. “Well I’ll be.”

“What?”

“This is one of mine.”

“Then how did Sam have it?”

“Not sure.” Bobby slides back into his chair, nose already buried in the book. “Huh.”

“I can see your wheels turning. You wanna share with the class?” Dean suppresses a yawn, rubs at his dry and scratchy eyes.

Bobby waves him off. “It’s just an idea. Give me some time.” Bobby pulls out his journal and starts taking some notes. He doesn’t even look up at Dean. “Sleep. I’ll wake you up if I find something.”

Dean clenches his jaw and tries to think. It’s only early afternoon, they’re burning daylight. He wants to keep looking. He wants to go see Sam, but his brain is fried. There really isn’t anymore that Dean can do until he rests.

“Alright, fine.” Dean says. He’s sure that there’s no way he can fall asleep with all these questions rattling around in his mind, but at this point even closing his eyes will do him some good. He sheds his jacket and kicks his boots off as he crosses to the nearest bed. He collapses face down into the pillows and falls asleep between one breath and the next.

 

…

 

Sam stands on an outcropping of red rock. He looks young and strong. His bangs curl over his forehead, enormous hoodie hanging from his shoulders. Exactly like he looked those first few months after Stanford. He smiles at Dean, small and rueful. The ground between his feet splits open, cracks spider webbing as the earth shakes. Sam’s feet are set wide, knees braced to ride out the shock as a fissure breaks open beneath him.

Wind whips around him, rushing from the chasm he straddles. He’s going to fall. The ground is going to swallow him whole and Dean can’t get to him, can’t even move. He tries to call out, beg him to look out, to get out of the way, but Sam just smiles wider, dimples catching shadows.

“You’re my brother, and I’d die for you. But there are some things I need to keep to myself,” Sam says, eyes wide and bright. The wind shifts, blowing his bangs across his forehead, just like that day in the car when he first said those words to Dean.

The ground shudders, a heaving crunch as it falls out beneath Sam’s left foot and he starts to tip, falling in slow motion.

Dean wakes with a jolt, center of gravity misaligned, alarm bells screaming through his body telling him he’s falling, everything’s falling. He isn’t though. He’s still on the bed and Bobby’s waving coffee under his nose.

“Up and at ‘em. We got lots to discuss.”

Dean swipes a hand over his face and glances at the clock. He’s only been asleep for a few hours and the tiredness from before has morphed into a muzzy-headed fog. He sighs and hauls himself out of bed and grabs the coffee from Bobby’s outstretched hand.

Bobby heads back to the table, and picks up the book from last night. “Remember when things first started getting crazy about a year ago? Hunters calling about bizarre hunts, strange disasters that no one could explain.”

“Yeah, crazy shit. All those people went blind on that fishing boat, a bunch of people waking up from comas and then disappearing.” Dean flips the cap off his coffee, inhales deep. The steam and the smell enough to start his groggy mind rolling.

“Yup,” Bobby nods and flips open the book, leafing through a few pages. “Well, when it all started, I got to thinking there was a connection between some of them. Started researching. I thought I remembered reading something in one of my books. I went to pull it out, but it was gone.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “It’s a miracle you don’t lose more books. Your organization strategy isn’t exactly the Library of Congress level.”

“Good enough to save your ass on the regular,” Bobby says, shooting Dean a stern look. “But that’s not the point. This is the book I was looking for. I figured I misplaced it, and it was a rare one, but I knew a few hunters who had a copy. I called ‘em up and what do you know?”

Dean sits up straight in his chair. “Their copies were gone too.”

“They were. And I think I know why they disappeared.” Bobby turns the book around so Dean can see his handwritten notes in the margin. He’s circled a passage about the raising of Samhain. “A lot of those hunts, the weird ones that had every hunter we know scrambling to keep up. I’ve already found a handful of them in here.”

Dean leans closer, notices the little numbers between the sentences marking out the verses. “Wait, is that a bible? I thought you said the book was rare.”

“Well this ain’t a copy you’ll find in any motel nightstand or church pew. It’s an unusual translation with a disturbingly detailed accounting of Revelations.”

“Wait, are you saying those hunts are part of Revelations? As in the end of times.”

“That’s right. Omens of the apocalypse. More specific, they’re seals on the Devil’s cage. Each one broken like a lock getting popped. And once that’s done it’s the ultimate archangel cage match. Lucifer versus Michael, with humanity as collateral damage, no matter who wins.”

“Woah, pump the breaks, ok? The Devil’s just a fairy story they tell the little demon boys and girls in Sunday school. He isn’t real.”

“You just met an angel,” Bobby says and leans back in his seat.

“That doesn’t mean the Devil’s real.”

“Well something’s going on Dean. Prophecies from an archaic version of the bible are coming true. It may be time to reevaluate some things.”

“This is insane. You can’t actually believe this.”

“Don’t matter much what I believe, if it’s real.”

Dean curls his fingers tightly around the styrofoam of his coffee cup, hears it creak under his fingers. The problem is that Bobby’s right. Most people don’t believe in vampires, but that doesn’t stop them from getting their throats ripped out. Dean’s learned the hard way how dangerous it is to assume something isn’t real. But believing in angels means believing in Heaven. With the devil comes God. And with everything Dean’s seen, kids with their hearts ripped out, people turned into monsters against their will, families torn apart – Dean’s family torn apart – asking him to believe in all that is too much. There’s got to be some catch. Dean doesn’t have that kind of faith in him. Never had to. Because Sam believed hard enough for the both of them.

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter if I believe it, because Sam would. He always believed in Heaven and Hell. Angels, God, the whole biblical shebang. He’d believe it and he’d research the hell out of it.” Dean  tips his chin at the crate of books beside the table.

Bobby nods. “We’ve got to remember that whatever is going on here, we aren’t getting on at the ground floor. This ball’s already rolling and we’ve got a lot of catching up to do. We can’t afford to get caught out because we don’t want to believe the Devil is real.” Bobby hesitates, crosses his arms over his chest. “But that’s only half the point. Someone took this book from my house more’n a year ago and somehow it ended up in Sam’s hands.”

“When was the last time you remember seeing it?” Dean asks, his heart picking up speed in his chest.

“Two years ago at least. Never had much use for it, before now,” Bobby says and adjusts the cap on his head. A nervous tick that amps up the anxious feeling in Dean’s gut. “It could have gone missing anytime and I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“You think Sam took it before he left,” Dean says, and it isn’t a question. He can tell by the tight look on Bobby’s face, the way he won’t quite meet Dean’s eyes that it’s exactly what he thinks. “Someone else could have taken it. Snuck in while you were on a hunt and stolen it.”

“Maybe,” Bobby concedes, “But you and I both know a demon couldn’t have gotten in, and it wouldn’t be the only thing to show up in Sam’s possession that shouldn’t be there.” Bobby’s eyes flash down to the knife, and Dean swallows against the thickness clogging his throat.

“Bela took it. She said she sold it,” Dean says, because Sam can’t have taken the knife. He can’t.

“Oh well, if Bela said it then it must be true.” Bobby rolls his eyes. “Now say for a minute Sam needed it for something but he didn’t want you to know about it, Bela would have been the perfect cover. She’d already taken the colt, why not blame one more missing relic on her.”

It does make a kind of sense. Sam’s certainly smart enough to pull it off. But he would have to convince Bela to lie for him, and Dean can’t imagine her doing that for free. “Ok. Say he did take the book and the knife. Why would he need them?”

“Maybe he knew what was coming.” Bobby is careful to keep his voice neutral, free of judgement, but it still rankles.

“You think he was involved in this. It’s the freaking apocalypse. Damn it, Bobby, you’re just as bad as the rest of them.” Dean swipes a hand down his face. The whole fucking world is so ready to believe Sam is some kind of monster.

Dean can handle it from the Campbells and a handful of crazy-ass hunters who prescribe to Gordon’s policy of shoot first and ask questions never, but he can’t handle it from Bobby. He knows Bobby’s been in the life longer, that he’s got more reason than most to think the worst of people. But Sam isn’t someone you give up on. At least, not for Dean. It’s not how he’s built.

“It ain’t like that.” This time Bobby catches Dean’s eyes and holds them. “I’m just trying to put the pieces together and there ain’t much else that makes sense.”

“This makes sense?” Dean snaps. “The knife, that was weeks before he left.” Dean stops, because it really is the simplest explanation. He swallows against a burst of vertigo, the way the world has inverted and the colors are all wrong. “Right before he started to talk about getting out.”

Sam can’t have been laying the groundwork for leaving for so long. Dean would have known. He would have noticed. He knows Sam. Better than anyone. Doesn’t he?

The enormity of Dean’s fuck up starts to sink in. He let it all start right under his nose, then he let Sam walk out of his life. He never should have let him go. Or he should have gone with him. He shouldn’t have left him alone.

“It’s just a theory,” Bobby says, and gives Dean a significant look. “Good thing there’s someone we can ask about it.”

Dean’s shaking his head before Bobby finishes talking. “No, no way. We do not need to complicate things by bringing Bela into this.”

“We need something concrete, Dean. We need to know about the knife, so why not go to the source?”

“Because the source is a liar and a thief,” Dean grumbles even as he pulls out his phone. He knows Bobby is right. If Bela has intel, they need it. But he can already tell that this is going to suck.

“Put on your big boy pants and make the damn call, would you?” Bobby rolls his eyes, and leans back in his chair.

Dean thumbs through his contacts, hits the call button and puts it on speaker while it rings. He hasn’t talked to Bela much since he threatened to kill her and she threatened to sic the FBI on them if they didn’t back off. She’s built a name for herself in hunter circles, even working with Ash on occasion. Dean doesn’t trust it, prefers to keep his distance from anything involving her, because Bela doesn’t do charity and it is only a matter of time before the other shoe drops.

“Dean Winchester.” Bela says, voice full of confidence. “I must admit, I’m surprised to hear from you. What do you want?”

“You could start with the truth,” Dean says, gritting his teeth.

“Hmm, that’s a tall order,” Bela says. “The truth usually costs extra. Are you sure you can afford it?”

“Cut the crap. I need you to tell me about the demon knife.”

Bela’s sigh carries down the line, crackling in the middle with static. “Aren’t we over this yet? I did what I had to do and I won’t apologize.”

“So you’ve said, but you’re going to have to do better than that, since you’ve been lying to me for more than a year. I gave you a pass, Bela. I should have hunted you down for what you took, made sure you were blacklisted with every hunter, but I didn’t. You owe me.”

“I don’t owe you a damn thing. You backed off because I made you,” Bela snaps, “Besides, I never lied to you. I took the knife and the colt for a client and I did it to save my life.”

“Then how come Sam has the knife?”

“Once my clients pay for their goods, it’s no business of mine what they do with them.” Bela says, voice tense enough that Dean knows he’s on the right track.

“Then who was the client?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Can’t or won’t,” Dean says, “because I swear to God if you keep lying to me–”

“You’ll what, kill me? We both know you don’t have the stomach for it.”

“Really? Maybe you better think on that for a second.’ Dean lets his anger seep in to poison his tone, “This is about Sam. If something happens to him, do you really think there is anything that could stop me from hunting you down?”

“I didn’t have a choice.” Bela says, the faintest tremor in her voice.

“Tell me who the client was,” Dean says through gritted teeth.

“Dean, you-”

“Tell me,” Dean snaps.

“Your brother. He told me where they were, he told me to take them.”

Dean can’t breathe. All the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. His lungs collapsing in on themselves and aching in his chest. So it’s true. Even then, Sam was planning something, falling down some dark hole while he was standing right next to Dean. “He asked you to take the colt, too?”

Dean can practically hear the click as Bela’s mouth snaps shut.

“Where is it? What did he want with them?”

“I can’t answer that. I mean it Dean, I _can’t_.”

“Damn it, Bela.”

“You’re asking the wrong questions.” An edge of hysteria creeps into Bela’s voice and it gives Dean pause.

“Ok,” he says, and takes a deep breath. “Then why can’t you tell me?”

“Because it would break my deal.”

“You sold your soul?” Dean doesn’t know why he’s surprised, but he is.

“A long time ago. I negotiated an extension and now I’m living on borrowed time.”  Bela sounds tired, the kind of tired that seeps into you and stains you.

“Ok,” Dean says, swiping his hand over his face. “Ok. Who holds the contract?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Tell me,” Dean snaps. His breath is coming quick now, and he tries to reign himself in. “I need– just tell me.”

“It’s Sam.”

The other shoe drops and it takes Dean’s stomach along with it. He can barely hear Bela over the blood rushing through his ears.

“I have to go. I’ve already said too much. If you’re smart, you’ll walk away now and never look back. It will be over soon, so just walk away,” Bela says and hangs up the phone.

Dean stares at his phone until the screen turns black, spurring him into motion. He tries to shove it in his pocket, but his hands are clumsy and he misses. The phone clatters back onto the table.

“He said he wanted out.” Dean says, and even to him his voice sounds small and lost, “He said he wanted a normal life. The nightmares were so bad I thought a break might help. What was I supposed to do? I just let him walk away. I let him walk right into the middle of this.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Bobby says, but he won’t meet Dean’s eyes.

“No? Sam sure knew something, was planning for it right under my nose. Damn it, Bobby.” Dean smacks his hand down on to the table, the crack echoing through the room. “I should have known.”

Dean’s anger burns bright and hot, but he’s too tired, too confused for it to last. Exhaustion slams into him with all the force of an eighteen wheeler. He slumps back in his seat and loses himself in the woodgrain of the cheap plywood table. There’s a chip on the edge and he picks at it with his thumb. The _scratch-click_ of his nail the only sound in the room.

“You alright?” Bobby asks.

Dean shrugs, pulls up a splinter of wood and lets it fall to the floor. “We need to get Ash on this, figure out how deep we’re in it. How many seals are broken.”

“I called him when I was grabbing coffee. Still no answer.” Bobby leans back and folds his arms across his chest. “It may be time to start worrying. I called Jo and Ellen. They haven’t heard from him either, but they’re going to check out his last bunker, see if he’s moved on. What we need right now is more information. We need to know what’s going on with Sam and why it is that the angels are looking for you.”

”Yeah, ok.” Dean scrubs a hand over his face and shoves the rising feeling of panic down. There’s work to be done. “First stop is the Campbells to trade intel, then I’ve got a date with a heavenly tax accountant.”

Dean slips on his jacket and jams his feet into his shoes. Behind him Bobby is gathering his things, tucking the bible in the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Hey Bobby.” Dean asks, unable to shake the thought, “if the Devil is real, then what about God?”

“Stands to reason,” Bobby says, meeting Dean’s eyes, his mouth held in a tight line.

“And he what, just doesn’t care? All this awful shit, all the stuff we hunt. He’s cool with it.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, then he’s an asshole.” Dean rolls his shoulders under his coat and slams out the door.

 

…

 

When they pull through the open gate into the refinery, Dean's hackles rise and he finds himself scanning the buildings and the knee-high grass that's broken through the black top.

Bobby arches an eyebrow at him. "Everything ok?"

"Fine," Dean says, putting the Impala in park and climbing out of the car. "Feel like this whole place is watching me."

"I know what you mean," Bobby says, coming around to stand beside him.

Dean pounds twice on the metal door with the side of his fist. The guards motions them in, and one of them breaks off to lead them to the monitor room. Christian and Mark are set up at a small folding table, playing Gin around the crumpled napkins and crumbs from their breakfast.

Christian kicks back, leaning on the back legs of his chair. "So, how was your little expedition. You find anything useful?"

"Where's Gwen?" Dean asks, ignoring Christian and focussing in on Mark.

"She's out on a hunt a few towns over. Took off a couple hours ago. Should be back tomorrow." Mark looks Dean over and uses his tongue to wiggle the toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth. "So, did you find anything?"

"Yeah," Dean says. He means to say more, he really does, but his eyes catch on the video monitors. Sam's sitting in the same spot he was last night, back a rigid line, and Dean's voice backs up in his throat. He doesn't want to share any part of Sam with these people, doesn't want them to take what he found and twist it until it's proof that Sam's some kind of monster.

Everyone's eyes are on him and he still can't unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

"How 'bout I fill you all in while Dean checks in on Sam," Bobby suggests.

Dean sighs in relief. He knows he can trust Bobby to tell them the right things. Knows without asking that Bela’s revelation stays between them. Bobby Singer, ladies and gentleman, saving Dean in ways big and small.

"All right then.” Mark nods at the guard still hovering at the door, “Can you take him?"

"Sure thing."

"I can find my way," Dean says.

"Still," Mark’s face is blank, but Dean reads his answer for what it is. He doesn't trust Dean, even if he isn't as overtly hostile about it as Christian.

Dean nods and follows the guard into the hall and down to Sam's cell. The guards at the cell door give Dean the stink eye before one of them turns to unlock it. Its creaking hinges protest and Dean watches the sigil covered walls appear in a slow arc as he fights to keep his shoulders from tightening up around his ears. When Sam comes into view, infuriating smirk in place, Dean's cheeks ache like he bit into something sour.

"You look tired," Sam says, as Dean walks into the room, the door clattering closed behind him.

"Been busy." Dean shoves his hands in his pockets so Sam won’t see him dig his nails into his thighs.

"Yeah, you have been. I almost expected to see you this morning, right after your little field trip."

This time Dean's shoulders do tense up, his whole body does. “Know about that, huh?” Dean says, trying to cover for the shock. Unless one of the Campbells spilled that particular tidbit, there’s no way Sam should know.

“Know a lot of things,” Sam says and arches a brow. “I know that Bobby’s up there running interference so you could come spend some quality time with your long-lost little brother. And I know that you’re wasting your time. You still think it’s your job to clean up after me. But here’s the thing, man, I’m not your problem anymore.”

“You’re always my problem,” Dean scoffs. "You need to tell me everything that’s happened so I can fix this."

Sam throws his head back and laughs, and Dean has to shove down the hurt and anger that rises up in him.

“That’s sweet Dean, but you’re punching above your weight class. You’re not a heavy hitter here. You’re not even a player.” Sam shoots Dean a wide-eyed look that is so far left of Sam’s usual earnest puppy-dog eyes that it sets Dean’s teeth on edge. “What was it Dad used to say? Know when you're outmatched and get the hell out. You should take his advice."

"Outmatched? I'm not the one locked in a cage," Dean snarls, anger finally cresting as he steps across the devil's trap. Sam's eyes snap to his feet, smirk spreading like an oil slick, and Dean resists the urge to step back.

"Did I hit a nerve?" Sam asks, leaning forward. "Unlike you Dean, I know what I'm doing. What makes you think I'm not exactly where I want to be?"

“Maybe you are,” Dean says, and stalks closer to loom over Sam, “but you’re expending an awful lot of energy trying to convince me to skip town. Sure seems like I’m not where you want me, and if you think that’s changing anytime soon, then you don’t know so much after all.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Sam sighs and tilts his head up to meet Dean’s eyes. “Knock, knock.”

The guard beats twice against the door in warning. A moment later it swings open and he calls, “Time’s up.”

“The hell it is,” Dean says, never breaking his staring contest with Sam. The tension coils between them, he can feel it in the anticipatory tightness of his muscles, see it mirrored in the dark shine of Sam’s eyes.

“Listen, kid, don’t make me shoot you.”

Dean gives the guy the hairy eyeball, half tempted to push his luck, but he makes his way back to the door. It’s too early to be stubborn and force his hand when the Campbells could cut off his access to Sam. Because then Dean would have to carve his way through anyone standing between him and his brother, and he doesn’t want to be that person. At least, not yet.

“See you soon, Dean,” Sam calls right as the door slams closed.

Dean waves the guard off and marches down the hall, back to the surveillance room. Mark and Christian are bent over the monitors and Bobby's waiting for him by the door. Dean catches a glimpse of Sam on the screen sitting on his bunk, hands on his thigh, fingers tapping to his own beat.

"You alright?" Bobby asks under his breath, quiet enough that the Campbells won't hear.

"Yeah," Dean says, "I'll fill you in later."

"Bobby get you up to speed?" Dean asks and Mark turns back to face him.

"Yeah. Gotta say it doesn't look too good."

Christian snorts. "Understatement."

Mark is watching Dean with careful attention, so Dean swallows the urge to round on Christian. He needs what info they've got if he's going to figure out what's going on with Sam. He takes a slow, deep breath.

"I want everything you've got on Sam, and that includes the footage from those cams," Dean says, tilting his chin at the monitors behind Mark.

"Gwen said you would. She knew you’d come back with something, and I’ve got to admit you delivered." Mark pulls a black flash drive from the computer tower under the table and holds it out to Dean. "That's everything we recorded since we first brought Sam here."

"This is stupid. Everyone knows what the Winchesters are like. You really think you can trust him?" Christian asks.

Mark folds his arms across his chest, face impassive. "We asked them here for a reason and it didn't work. We need their help to figure out what's going on. Like you said, Sam's his brother and Gwen was right, Dean deserves to know the truth. Besides that," Mark says, "we made a deal."

Dean lifts the flash drive and nods in salute. “Now how about you do me another solid and take that chain off my brother’s ankle. You’ve got him on lockdown. Seems a little overkill.”

"That is some serious bullshit. Your little brother's been playing footsie with demons for the last year and you're worried about his ankle chaffing," Christian says with a sneer, stepping away from the wall where he's been leaning.

"Cool it, Christian,” Mark says and shoots Christian a stern look before turning his attention back to Dean. “That chain’s for everyone’s safety. No one wants a scuffle at the door. But when Gwen gets back, we’ll discuss it as a group. Just don’t expect much."

Dean nods, he’s not happy with it but he respects Mark’s candor. And if he's honest with himself, the Sam he just saw scares him.

"Fine," Christian says, and turns on Dean. "Let’s discuss how Sam's a traitor. Hell, he's probably not even human anymore. There's no coming back from that, so you better get over yourself and face the facts."

Dean pushes into Christian's space. Shoves him back against the table. Stops himself short of punching Christian square in the nose. "You shut your mouth about Sam," Dean hisses.

"Enough!" Mark snaps and hauls Dean back by his arm, starts pushing him to the door. "Take a look at the drive and come back tomorrow, ok?"

"Fine." Dean turns on his heel and walks out. Behind him, Bobby asks for a copy of the protection sigils that are all over Sam's cell. Christian starts up his bullshit again, but Dean couldn't care less. Bobby will put him in his place and Dean's got better things to do.

 

…

 

Half an hour later, Dean's leaning back in a red vinyl booth with a full stomach. The flash drive is burning a hole in his pocket, but Bobby was right. They needed food. Dean is wiping grease from his fingers with a wad of paper napkins when his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket and checks the display. He doesn't recognize the number and a sense of apprehension sweeps over him as he answers.

"Hello?"

"Dean, man, didn't think you were gonna answer," Ash says. Dean sits up straighter in the chair.

"Where the hell have you been, Ash? I’ve been trying to reach you for days."

"Sorry man, I had to skip town. I’m talking new safehouse, new gear, new phone.”

“Was something after you?” Dean asks, and Bobby leans forward, catching Dean's eye and nodding at the phone, but Dean waves him off.

“Something’s always after me, man. That’s what happens when you become the general of a vast hunter army.”

Dean snorts a laugh, “General?”

“Or you know, the resident, deeply underappreciated computer genius with an algorithm for detecting hunts,” Ash sighs, “Speaking of which, Bobby’s with you right? Put the phone on speaker, compadre, I don’t want to have to explain this twice."

"Yeah alright. Hang on a sec," Dean says and scans the restaurant.

It's still early for the dinner rush and there's a table near the front that’s overflowing with teenagers, but otherwise the restaurant is empty, so Dean thumbs the phone on speaker and puts it on the table between them.

"Ok, go ahead."

"Ok minions, maestro’s got a hunt for you. It's not too bloody yet, but I’ve got a feeling that it’s about to be. I'm talking serious carnage. It’s right down in Thompsonville, and you're closest."

"Can’t do it,” Dean says.

“What do you mean you can’t do it? We’ve got cattle mutilations and two missing tweens,” Ash says.

“I mean, I can’t do it. We found Sam.”

“What? Where is he? Is he ok?” Ash’s tone snaps right into business mode and Dean can hear him tapping away at his keyboard.

“We know you’ve heard the rumors Ash, same as we have,” Bobby says, “And on the surface some of them look true.”

Dean bites back the bitter scoff trying to creep out of his throat and shoots Bobby a dirty look.

“On the surface,” Bobby stresses and meets Dean’s eyes with a stern look of his own. “There’s something else at work here, something big.”

“There’s a lot of data to sort through and we need your help,” Dean says.

“Yeah, you got it. What am I looking at?”

“We need you to sort through a bunch of omens from an old bible and see how many match up with recent hunts.”

“Sounds simple enough. Send me the details and your omens and I’ll get cracking ASAP.”

“Thanks, man. I owe you.”

“You could pay me back by taking this hunt,” Ash wheedles.

“Nice try,” Dean says and hangs up the phone.

“Bobby, how are you going to get the list of seals to Ash?” Dean asks, and waits for Bobby’s glare. He does not disappoint.

“I’m old, not stupid. I know how to work a scanner and send an e-mail.” Bobby says with a roll of his eyes. “Idjit.”

“Yeah, alright, you’re a technological genius,” Dean concedes with a grin. “You were right about Ash. He had to clean house.”

“Makes you wonder how he even knew I was with you.” Bobby finishes up his last few fries and takes a sip from his coke.

“How does Ash know anything?” Dean shrugs.

Bobby hums, and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, guess we better call Ellen and let her know Ash finally checked in.”

“Hey,” Dean says, perking up. “Weren’t they in Missouri checking out Ash’s old place? Couldn’t they take the hunt?”

“I’ll make the call while you chauffeur me to Library.” Bobby grins and throws some cash down on the table. “Then I believe you said something about a sit down with your angel pal.”

Dean grins back. Having a plan, knowing that Ash has got their back, makes Dean feel like they’ve got half a shot at figuring this all out.

 

...

 

Dean skirts Chicago and drives north on 94 until he hits Wisconsin. He’s about an hour and a half from the refinery when he deems himself far enough away and starts looking for a place to stop. He almost misses the broken-down gas station next to an abandoned Biggerson's. He slides across two lanes of traffic and takes the exit 10 miles an hour too fast. He pulls off into the Biggerson's lot, parking behind the building where his car can't be seen from the road.

A square of rust stains the ground where a dumpster used to sit and a pair of old lawn chairs are toppled over in the patch of grass behind the pavement where harried line cooks used to take their smoke breaks. The white plastic of the chairs has gone dingy and green with splotchy mold. Dean grabs the chairs. He sets one on the pavement a good ten feet away, facing the building. The other he sets at an angle to the building wall where he can face the other chair, have something solid at his back, and reach the side of the building with one elbow resting on the chair's arm.

His belt knife glints in the late evening light as he slices a neat line across his palm cupping it to collect the blood. He paints the angel banishing sigil on the wall with careful strokes. When he's finished he presses the bandana from his back pocket against his cut until the flow nearly stops. He leaves a smear of blood on his palm ready to activate the sigil.

The last of the sun sinks away into the west as the purple night seeps across the sky. Crickets call from the tall grass bordering the parking lot. Dean takes a deep breath and sits in the chair. He balances his right elbow against the armrest. Bloody hand poised over the banishing sigil, he closes his eyes and prays.

"Castiel, angel of the Lord, I would like a word with you," Dean says, feeling nine kinds of idiotic.

The sky darkens, the crickets continue to call and a breeze bends the grass in nodding waves. Nothing happens. This is why Dean has never bothered with the whole prayer thing before, but Bobby assured him this made the most sense to reach the angel.

"Uh, Castiel, this is Dean. I need to talk to you." Still nothing. "C'mon man, I didn't drive into freaking Wisconsin to hang out behind a empty Biggerson's for the fun of it." Dean cranes his head around, scanning across the treeline. There's nothing but him and the night sounds in the deepening shadows.

So much for getting more intel. Dean rubs at the corner of his mouth and sighs. What a waste of time. A fox runs from the brush, across the grass and into the treeline. Dean tracks its movements and when he turns back Castiel is standing behind the other chair.

"Took you long enough," Dean grumbles under his breath.

Castiel tilts his head, crow-like. "There are many Biggerson's in Wisconsin."

"And I'm hard to find, apparently."

"It is more than that. You are shielded in a way that should not be possible." Castiel takes a step toward Dean.

"Whoa, hold up," Dean says and lets his hand hover above the sigil on the wall. Castiel’s eyes flick to the sigil and settle on Dean.

"I picked up some new tricks, so why don't you take a seat and we'll have a nice chat," Dean says. "Come any closer and I'll blast you out of here."

Castiel fixes Dean with an impassive look and stares long enough that Dean has to fight not to squirm in his seat. Castiel blinks at Dean, steps in front of the chair, and sits, paying no heed to how the trench coat bunches up against the seatback.

"So, you're an angel."

"As I have said." Castiel locks his cold, blue eyes on Dean and leans forward in his chair. "I am not used to being summoned by a human."

"Well, I'm not used to talking to winged tax accountants." Dean gestures to Castiel's rumpled suit and twisted blue tie. "So it's a night for expanding our horizons, I guess."

"Tax accountant?" Castiel asks, he looks around as if searching for some wayward office worker. He glances down at himself, runs a hand over the front of his shirt, fingers tangling with his tie. "Ah, you mean my vessel."

"Vessel?" Dean's stomach twists and his hand moves closer to the wall. He knew this whole angel thing was fishy. The demon’s words from Detroit echo in his head. The vessel. "As in you are possessing some poor schmuck? I thought angels were supposed to help people, not take them over. So, what, you’re just like a demon?"

Castiel's eyes flash with white light and a gust of air bursts from him like a pressure wave. "I am no demon. It is necessary to interact on this plane, but Angels never take what is not offered. This vessel is a devout man, he prayed to serve heaven and consented to be my vessel. You would do well to learn from his example."

"Yeah, no thanks. I'm not signing up to be an angel condom."

"You are the Michael Sword, you are destined to be an instrument of Heaven.”

“The Michael Sword. See, I’m not liking the sound of that. I met a demon who called me the vessel. And I’m starting to think the two are related.”

“It is your destiny. You should have joined the fight long ago. If you come with me, all will be made clear. There is no time to waste." Castiel says and shifts his weight to stand.

"Don’t," Dean says, bringing his hand closer to the wall again. His mind is racing. Castiel basically confirmed Dean’s guess. If Dean is supposed to be Michael’s vessel, what about Lucifer? "I'm not going anywhere with you. I brought you here for a reason. I still have questions, and you're going to answer them.”

“Am I? I am a soldier of Heaven, I do not answer to you.” Castiel’s voice drops deeper, the shadows pulling in around him.

“So who do you answer to? God?”

Castiel’s mouth tightens and he regards Dean for a long moment. “I am a soldier of Heaven. I follow Heaven’s orders,” he says, and though it is slight, there is hesitation in his answer. So not exactly God, then. Dean smells something fishy and he follows the scent.

“You keep saying that I’m important, that I’m needed in the fight. If Michael needs me so bad, why did he send you alone?”

Castiel’s unnerving gaze flicks away for a moment and his mouth presses into a tighter line. “It is complicated.”

“They don’t know you’re here, do they?”

Castiel’s sullen silence is answer enough.

“So what’s got you spooked enough to keep a meeting like this secret?”

“I seek information. The same as you.” Castiel says, and the sharpness in his eyes tells Dean to tread carefully.

“Ok, so I know the seals on Lucifer’s cage are breaking. I’m supposed to be Michael’s skin suit. What I don’t know is how many it takes to pop the cage for the heavenly showdown.”

“There are six hundred seals,” Castiel says, “but only sixty six need to be broken.”

“Those are some pretty stacked odds,” Dean says. “Any idea how many are left?”

“There are conflicting reports,” Castiel says, a thread of doubt creeping into his voice.

“Our leaders have not been-” Castiel flinches and his eyes slam closed. When they open again there’s a hint of apprehension in his expression. “They are searching for me. If they find out that I have spoken to you without bringing you to them, I will be removed from the field.”

  
“So tell them I blasted you away before you could.”

“Lie?” Castiel asks, eyes piercing into Dean.

“Doesn’t have to be a lie,” Dean says and wiggles his bloody fingers. Castiel watches him with narrowed eyes, clearly not sold on the idea. “The way I see it, we have a chance to get at the truth here, but only if we’re both free to keep looking.”

In the blink of an eye, so fast Dean doesn’t even see him move, Castiel is standing in front of Dean.

“Shit!” Dean reaches for the wall but Castiel catches his wrist in an iron grip.

“I agree to your terms.” He leans down over Dean, face inches from his own. “But the next time you meet an angel, do not make the mistake of believing yourself to be faster.”

With that, Castiel uses his grip on Dean’s arm to press his palm against the sigil. Dean flinches at the bright flash of light, and shields his face in the crook of his elbow. When the light fades, Dean is alone.

 

…

 

When Dean climbs out of the Impala back at the motel, the clerk flags him down with a harried wave. He's leaning out of the propped open door one eye on the Hallmark movie playing on the small tv on the counter and a small brown package in his outstretched hand.  
  
"This just came for you, Mr. Rockford." He waves the package around in the air, and sticks his head back through the door, enraptured by the crying woman on screen.  
  
"Thanks," Dean says and jogs over to take it from him. It’s got no return address and no postmark, but _B. Talbot_ is scrawled across the upper righthand corner. The sharp smell of ozone wafts off the package, a trace of the magic Bela used to transport it here.

Dean's heart starts racing as he rips the paper off, crumpling it in his hand. Inside is a pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses and a folded piece of paper. Dean sets the glasses aside and opens the note.  
  
_Dean-_  
  
_When you find Sam’s journal, you will need these glasses to read it. They are under a powerful enchantment and will see through the obfuscation charm I gave Sam._  
  
_Don't break the glasses. The ingredients for the enchantment are worth more than your precious car._  
  
_In case you were wondering, this makes us even._

 _  
_ - _Bela_

Sam's journal. Jesus, of course. Sam had started carrying a journal after they killed Azazel. He was always writing in it. It was at his elbow in every library, at every rickety motel table. Everytime he was knee deep in research it was by his side. Dean had thought Sam was finally embracing the hunter life. Not for revenge, but for himself. And the thought lifted a weight from his shoulders that he’d been carrying ever since Sam left for Stanford. They beat Azazel and Sam was going to stay. Dean got to finish Dad's quest and keep his brother. He was on top of the world. So he never bothered to question it, was never even tempted to flip through Sam’s journal. He figured Sam would show it to him when he was ready.

When they rolled into what should have been just another college town in Virginia to take care of a restless spirit and Sam had announced he was staying, Dean realized he was a fucking idiot. Winchesters don't get their happy endings. That's not how it works, and Sam had never meant to stay. Sam already had an apartment lined up, was already enrolled in classes. And Dean was sure that Sam's journal was the place he had planned his escape.

Dean had wanted to grab the journal then, rip it up. Burn it. Throw it out the window while blazing 100 miles an hour down I-81 with his brother trussed up in the back. But it was too late. Damage done.

Dean knew better than to try to keep Sam. So he decided to stick around town for a couple weeks, watch over Sam, make sure he was settled. He even toyed with idea of getting a job, willing to try normal on for size if it would keep him near Sam. But he couldn't handle the way Sam looked at him during the few awkward meals they shared. The way that said he wasn't just waiting for Dean to move on, he was hoping for it.

Dean didn't stick around long enough to hear Sam say it. Still, at least once a week, he'd swing through town and check up on Sam. Watch him study at his kitchen table, or come in dripping sweat from his morning run. The fifth time the leggy blonde with the wavy hair was at Sam's dinner table was when Dean finally realized Sam wasn't coming back. He wasn't going to wake up one morning and realize he made a mistake. Sam was out and he wanted to stay out. It took Dean two years longer to come to that same conclusion when Sam ran off to Stanford, so at least Dean was learning.

Dean avoided Virginia for two months. By the time he returned, the apartment was empty and the only thing left was that note. Dean had been heart-sore enough – pride dinged up worse than the Impala’s undercarriage – that he let Sam go. Second worse mistake he made after not snooping through that damn journal when he had the chance.

Dean swallows past the bad taste the memories leave in his mouth and walks into the motel room. Bobby glances up from the manilla folder of documents from the Campbells and Dean hands over the package from Bela. Bobby tosses the folder onto the table and pulls out the note.

"Your angel pal show?" Bobby asks, as he scans through the note and pokes at the glasses.

"Yeah," Dean answers, but most of his attention is on the corner of a photo sticking out from the folder on the table. "You remember Sam's journal?"

"That old gray thing? You think that's what Bela meant?"

"Yeah, I do. Wasn't in the crate, was it?" Dean asks and sees Bobby shake his head from the corner of his eye. “Not in any of his other stuff, either,” Dean says as he pulls the photo from the folder.

There’s two of them stuck together. They're mugshot style pictures of Sam, one from the front, one from the back, and the sight of them sends everything else flying out of Dean's head. In the photos, Sam is shirtless and his chest is covered in fine white scars, sigils carved into his skin. They are more of the same enochian and archaic symbols that cover his cell but some he’s never seen before. The scars are old, clearly healed and there's no way it's the work of the Campbells. Dean remembers seeing the edges of them when he saw Sam's broken tattoo, but he never thought they hinted at something like this.

Dean's jaw clenches and his stomach twists itself in knots as he runs a finger over the photo. It would have taken hours of precision knifework to render the dense mass of symbols that cover Sam from collarbones to hip bones, some spilling over onto his sides. But it's the photo of his back that is the most visually striking. The scrollwork of black ink that traces down over his spine from the base of his neck to the small of his back stands stark against Sam’s tan skin.

Sam's expression is blank on a cursory view, but Dean can see the tightness in his jaw and the faint lines on his forehead that speak of discomfort. Sam was always shy about his body. Modest. Except around Dean.

"It's mostly enochian, but there's Sumerian, Sanskrit, and Latin, too," Bobby says, and his voice is subdued. "Near as I can tell these ones are the most important."

Bobby points to the one running down Sam's back. "It's enochian and translates roughly to something like, no movement without the will of the container or body, something like that.”

“Vessel?” Dean says.

“Yeah, could be. And this one here," Bobby taps a scar on Sam's chest, in the opposite position of Sam's anti-possession tattoo, "is like nothing I've seen before. It's a hybrid of Enochian and pre-Celtic runes. It's actually pretty damn brilliant."

"What's it mean?"

"Well, I could go into how the histories of the symbols and how they've been used align, but what it boils down to is anchoring and consent."

"Like the tattoo? No movement without the will?" Dean asks.

"Basically," Bobby says. He’s got that gleam of discovery in his eyes, the same one Sam used to get when he stumbled across something new. "but this one is targeted specifically at angels."

“Castiel could pop in and out of places, and every time he tried to get me to come with him, he made a grab for me. Think that mark can stop him from zapping you someplace?"

“I’d wager that’s exactly what it does. Most of the other markings have to do with hiding and protection, but if you did get found?”

“You wouldn’t want them to be able to beam you up. Yeah, I got it.” Dean sighs and leans back in his chair. “So Sam is in a cage that hides him from angels, has a tattoo that has to do with the will of a vessel, and a sigil carved into his skin that has to do with consent and angels. Oh and he’s been running with demons.”

“Yeah, it’s starting to paint a pretty clear picture.”

“More than you know,” Dean says. “Castiel implied that it’s my destiny to be Michael’s vessel for the big grudge match. And he said that you have to agree to be an angel’s host.”

“So you think, what? Sam’s a vessel, too, and maybe the markings are extra protection to keep angels out?” Bobby picks up one of the photos, staring at the markings carved into Sam’s chest.

“I don’t know,” Dean says, “but if Lucifer’s cage gets popped, he’s going to need a suit, too. So I think we better find out.”

Dean cues up the surveillance footage of Sam’s cell on his laptop and is settling in to watch when Bobby’s phone rings.

“Ellen,” Bobby answers, putting the phone on speaker. “Dean’s here, too.”

“Hey, Ellen,” Dean greets.

“Good to hear your voice Dean. Bobby tells me you found Sam. How are you holding up?"

“Oh, you know me. I’m all sunshine and roses.” Dean says, leaning closer to the phone. “How’s the hunt?”

“That’s the thing. There ain’t one. The cattle mutilation was a cow that died out at pasture and got worked over by the local coyotes. The two girls ran away together and were found a couple towns over at one of their cousin's. You didn’t need boots on the ground to figure that out. I mean Ash is batting a thousand when it comes to hunts, so I can’t see how he thought this is one.”

“A rookie hunter could have told you it was a bust after five minutes." Jo shouts from far away, voice small and tinny.

“She ain’t wrong,” Ellen says. “Either way, we’re going to stick around for another day or so. Make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

“Alright, keep us posted. Oh, and Ellen, do me a favor? Don’t check in with Ash about this yet,” Bobby says.

“You got something cooking I should know about?”

“Not sure, we’ll let you know.” Bobby says and hangs up the phone, tucking it away in his pocket.

“What are you thinking, Bobby?”

Bobby waves Dean off. “I’m thinking we should get back to work.”

They buckle down, diving into the info the Campbells gave him. Bobby spreads out the blueprints and files from the Campbells, while Dean starts reviewing the the footage of Sam’s cell. He keeps finding himself distracted by the slope of Sam’s shoulder or the way his hands flex as he taps against his leg. Dean opens the clip of their second visit. He watches the way his own shoulders tense, the gleam in Sam’s eyes. As soon as Dean turns to leave, Sam’s back at it again. Tap tap. Tap tap. Travelling in an irregular rhythm from finger to finger. Dean is about to zoom in when an email notification from Ash pops up on screen.

_Dean,_

_Found about 80 seals broken so far. Still looking. Is the world ending? Cause if it is, I do not have enough PBR stocked up._

_Ash_

Attached is a spreadsheet of eighty two hunts with date, location and seal that was broken. Dean's heart races. Didn’t Castiel say that they only had to break sixty six to free Lucifer? So why keep going, unless it didn’t work. Dean scans through the list quickly at first, but he doesn’t recognize any of the hunts. Some of the dates and locations catch his attention. He was right next to a couple of them, but Ash always sent him somewhere else.

“Hey Bobby, take a look at this,” Dean turns the computer toward Bobby. “You recognize any of these?”

Bobby scans the list and as he goes the furrow in his brow grows. “Not a one,” he says.

“Me neither. What are the chances that out of eighty two hunts neither of us were on one?”

“Not good. Wait, look at this one. Weren’t we in Cincinnati the day before?” Bobby asks, pointing at one of the hunts that caught Dean’s eye.

“Yeah, and Ash sent us to freaking Lansing.”

“Well, I’m not liking how things are adding up. Look at this,” Bobby says and slides over the blueprints of Sam’s cells. They look computer generated, the sigils drawn out in precise lines. It’s even more impressive to see them laid out like this, the number and variety so much more apparent then the overwhelming mess of the cell walls.

“Here,” Bobby says, pointing to a penciled note on one of the pages, “whose chicken scratch does that look like to you.”

Dean leans over the page, focusing on the sharp peaks and slanted lines, the cramped spacing. “Is that Ash’s handwriting?” Dean’s stomach turns as things start adding up. “He’s the Campbells' source. And he’s been giving us the runaround to keep us out of the way?”

“That’s what it seems like,” Bobby says as taps his pen against the table, “I guess we’ll see.”

Dean leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling and feeling like the rug’s been pulled out from under his feet.

 

…

 

**Opening: the beginning phase of the game, where players set up their pawn structures and develop their pieces.**

**November 2007**

 

Sam let's the door to the motel room slip closed behind him. He glances in the window for a moment. Dean's sitting on his bed with a paper plate of pizza. Half-chewed crust hanging out of his mouth while he laughs at something on TV. An old affection stirs in Sam’s chest, but it doesn’t rise up like it used to. That’s good. There’s no room for things like that anymore.

He walks to the edge of the motel parking lot, away from the building lights. The motel's on a pitted-up road a half mile off the highway. He looks across the field of corn stubble to the highway overpass and pulls out his phone. He dials Bela's number and waits while it rings.

Bela answers the phone brusk and disinterested, "How did you get this number?"

"That's a warm greeting," Sam says, keeps his voice open. Conversational.

"Oh. Sam Winchester, what a treat. See, you're fine. You are fine?"

"We are."

"Of course you are. I don't know what all the fuss over Gordon was about. Did you call to thank me or threaten me?" Bela's voice is back to wry and unconcerned. Over the line he can hear the quiet buzz of people talking. A bar or a restaraunt.

Sam ignores her question. "So, have you started counting down the days, yet?"

There is a long pause filled with the ambient noise of people going about their normal lives. A loud slam, a door closing, and then the line falls dead-quiet. Sam can just make out Bela's breathing. On his end the sky is black and heavy with clouds. The highway hums nearby with the sound of an approaching car. The swish of tires on wet pavement. He watches one set of headlights cut through the dark and disappear before Bela answers.

"What are you talking about?" There's an edge to her voice that Sam hasn't heard before.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." Sam says. He aims for the same earnest voice he uses with witnesses, but it turns cold at the end.

"You can't possibly know- ah. So the rumors are true. You are a psychic after all. We should go into business together Sam. We'd make a killing."

"Cute, but I'm not interested in starting a business with someone who's going to be dead in two months."

"Then what do you want, a discount?"

"I'm not calling to buy anything from you; I'm calling to sell you something."

"What, goofer dust? Your protection?” Bela scoffs. “Don't be ridiculous. Do you really think I don't already know every trick in the book, haven't tracked down every occult item said to repel hellhounds? There is nothing you have that I could want."

"Oh, so you aren't interested in buying back your soul? Is this the part where I pretend to have another buyer to keep you interested? It's kind of a specialty item, though, I don't think you can afford to pass it up."

Sam can hear Bela's breathing go thready over the line. "What have you done?" Sam recognizes the edge to her voice now, fear, distrust. It only hurts a little this time. Sam knows what he is and what he is willing to do. What he has to become. Her fear isn't entirely unjustified.

"Nothing yet. I know who holds your contract and I know what they want. Whether or not I go through the trouble of getting your contract depends entirely on you." Sam keeps his voice hard. With what’s coming, Sam needs someone to procure rare items for him and it can’t be Bobby. He needs Bela, but she needs him more. He waits with his breath held.

"What do I have to do?"

When Sam hangs up the phone, it is with the satisfied click of a puzzle piece slotting into place. She’s not his first recruit or his last, but she does have an important role to play. They all do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Endgame**

**September 2009**

 

When they pull into the refinery the next morning, Gwen's shuffling around in the back of her truck, leaning over the open gate. She salutes them with her styrofoam coffee cup, winking at Bobby as they park and climb out of the Impala.

"You just get in?" Bobby asks.

"Yeah, haven’t been in yet," Gwen says. She zips up the weapons bag she was digging through and turns around to lean against the back of the truck. When she shifts, the side of her flannel splays out and Dean can see the asphalt through the scattering of holes there.

“That looks close,” Dean says.

Gwen glances down. “Oh, that. Buckshot. Was nearly the casualty of friendly fire, if you can believe it. A couple of fine upstanding citizens thought they could take care of things on their own. It was kind of a mad house, honestly. But I straightened them out.”

She folds her arms across her chest and stifles a yawn with one hand, before it falls to the leather thong around her throat. She fiddles absently with the the gold ring hanging from it. Rolls it back and forth. Dean's never seen it before, but that doesn't mean much. He likes Gwen, but they've never been close.

"So, Mark called and filled me in on the seals." Gwen shoots Dean a half apologetic look. "Looks like Sam was in deep."

"Maybe," Dean says.

"You know what would really help," Bobby says, and his eyes are narrowed, focused in on Gwen in that shrewd way that tells Dean he's on to something. "We've got Ash working on tracking all the broken seals. You said your source had been tracking Sam. Sure would be helpful if we could get that information, send it along to Ash. Have him see if it lines up."

"Or you could have Ash send us his info, and we can cross check it," Gwen says with a shrug, but her fist clenches around the ring.

“Ash already has an algorithm going,” Bobby waves a dismissive hand, “it’ll be faster this way.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Gwen hedges.

“You got some problem with Ash I don’t know about?” Dean asks.

“No, no of course not. Yeah we can figure something out. Might take a little while to get it. How bout we send it directly to Ash.”

"I'm not seeing the problem here," Dean says, "unless you've got something to hide."

"Seems to me, that you don’t want us looking at that data. Afraid we might recognize Ash’s work?” Bobby asks.

"Aw shit," Gwen says and closes her eyes.

So that’s it then. Ash is their source. A switch flips in Dean’s head and Dean is flooded with blinding anger.

"How long? How long were you hunting Sam, building a cage for him?" Dean demands, pushing right into Gwen's space, looming over her as his voice rises, "And you couldn't pick up the damn phone?"

"Screw you," Gwen says, shoving right back into Dean's face, looking up at him from glinting eyes. "We were trying to protect you."

"I trusted Ash. I trusted you," Dean says, spinning around because he wants to punch something but it's not going to be Gwen.

"Oh, come on, Dean! If you trusted us you would still be hunting with us. You made it pretty clear that you didn’t like the way we do things.” Gwen throws up her hands, voice rising. “We never could live up to Sam, could we?”

“Don’t change the subject. You should have told me, brought me in the second you knew something about Sam.”

"Don’t you get it?” Gwen says something like pity softening her voice. “The Sam you knew is gone. We were trying to take care of it so you didn’t have to. We may not have been good enough for you, but we're still family. And family looks out for each other.”

“Are you joking?” Dean spits. “You lied to me and shoved my brother in a cage. Family is something you earn.”

“What, like Sam has this last year? He was off sleeping with the enemy while he left you to rot in limbo.” Gwen says, sharp again, and for a flash of a second he sees the dark edge of glee in her eyes but he blinks and all that’s there is stubborn defiance. “We were trying to protect you.”

“Yeah, well great job,” Dean snaps.

“We got stuck, ok. Turns out we need your help.” Gwen says and slumps back against her truck.

Dean forces himself to take a step back and breathe, rubs at his mouth to keep himself quiet. His stomach is hollowed out and he wants to shout and rage, but there’s no point. Nothing to be gained.

Bobby lays a heavy hand on Dean's shoulder. "Let's go see Sam."

Dean follows him to the door. “At least we know what’s up with Ash,” he sighs, but Bobby just hums as he knocks.

As Dean passes inside, he glances over his shoulder to see Gwen leaning back against the side of the truck again, staring off into the middle distance as she toys with her necklace.

 

...

 

"You look like shit," Christian says when he pulls the door open.

Dean snorts and shoves past him making a beeline down the hall towards Sam's cell, Bobby by his side. Christian follows a pace behind and keeps his mouth shut, choosing discretion for the first time since Dean met him.  

When they get to the cell, the guard flicks a questioning look at Christian who nods. "I've got it from here," he says. "Why don't you take a break."

The guard raises an eyebrow, but shrugs, and heads back toward the monitor room.

Christian unlocks the door, yanking hard against the weight and rusty hinges, walking it backwards when it finally gives way.

Sam's eyes flicker down to Dean’s chest, catch and hold on his amulet and for a moment the line of his mouth goes soft. Even through the placid expression Sam is wearing like a well-chosen mask, in that one unguarded second, Dean sees Sam. His Sam.

The sound of a hissed in breath breaks Dean's focus and he turns to see Christian in the shadow of the door, peeking around the edge, wide eyes on Sam like he's never seen him before. Dean’s neck prickles in warning.

Sam surges to his feet, chain rattling. Christian curses and starts pushing the door closed with Dean still standing in the doorway.

"Christo," Sam calls.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath as beside him Christian flinches and his eyes blink black as an oil slick.

"Damn it," Bobby says, grabbing Dean by the back of the coat, hauling him out of Christian's reach, just as the demon takes a swing.

"Whoops," the demon singsongs, "That is not how I wanted this to go."

Dean makes a grab for the demon knife, but the demon throws up his hand. Power slams into Dean and he and Bobby fly into the opposite wall. Inside the cell, Sam tries to step forward and is brought up short by the chain.

"Ah, ah, ah. I already know what you keep in your pants, and I don't need an encore showing." The demon winks at Dean and turns back to Sam's cell. "Get a load of this place. No wonder no one could find it. Fucking wards, man."

Recognition slams through Dean. "It's you. From Detroit."

"Ding ding, we have a winner. Knew you were a lucky bonus. Been following you for days. And you led me right to him. Just had to wait for _her_ to leave, then slide on in this one."

All those times Dean felt watched, all the times his skin crawled, was this punk-ass demon tailing him. He should have listened to his instincts.

The demon turns back to Sam, slow smile spreading across his borrowed face. "Found you.”

"So you did," Sam says. "Too bad you got caught out."

"Well it’s a good thing I’ve got these two as insurance," the demon says. He grins Christian’s infuriatingly smug grin at Sam. “Maybe I should tell them all about your dirty little secrets Sam. I bet they’d love to hear about that little Angel vs Demon cage match you arranged in Virginia.”

The demon strolls over to Dean, leaning in to stage whisper, “they both wound up dead, not very sporting if you ask me.”

The demon circles around to Bobby, flicks the brim of his hat and winks. “Or maybe I should tell them what level of freak you really are. You’ve always wondered, haven’t you, Bobby? Just what was it that made Sam so different.”

“Screw you,” Bobby snarls.

Dean bucks against the demon’s hold and his attention snaps back to Dean.

"What's wrong? Don't you want to know why Sam couldn’t just suck it up and be like you and dear old Dad. Should I tell you how Azazel crept into Sam's nursery that night so he could give little bro his go juice? Demon blood, better than mother's milk any day of the week."

"What are you saying?" Dean asks, stunned into stillness.

"I'm saying that Azazel bled in little Sammy's mouth. I'm saying Sam hasn't been human, at least not entirely, for pretty much his whole life.

"You and Sam on different sides? That was always going to happen, Dean. Frankly it's a miracle it didn't happen sooner. But I guess you can thank Sam's pesky conscience for that. If you only knew the things he did in your name. Who he let–"

Sam clenches his fist and the demon's voice dries up.

"Enough. Azazel was an idiot. He lacked vision." Sam laughs a little, shakes his head. "Or maybe the problem was that he lacked visions. He didn’t see things clearly, not like I do."

The demon claws at his throat, fear making him frantic. He throws his head back and black smoke starts pouring from his mouth. The wall of force pinning Dean and Bobby like bugs releases, and Dean falls to his feet. His mind is racing. He can't let this demon get away again, it knows to much. Knows where Sam is and if that information gets out, there could be a whole host of demons knocking on their door. Not to mention that it seems to know something of Sam and what's going on. Dean's desperate to question it and he wants to spare Christian's life if he can.

His eyes land on the devil's trap just inside Sam's door and he knows what he has to do. He drops his shoulder, ready to tackle Christian's body into the trap and keep the demon from making it's grand escape. But before he can even take a step, Sam's voice booms out through the corridor.

"No." The black smoke freezes, hangs in the air. Sam crooks a finger, beckoning and in a brutal rush, the demon smoke reverses, cramming itself back down Christian's throat. "I'm not done with you yet. Can’t have you running off to tell mom."

Sam draws his hand in toward himself and the demon slides across the ground. His arms pinwheel and he makes a frantic grab for the doorway, but his fingers slip away and Dean watches in horror as Sam pulls the demon right into the center of the devil's trap.

The second the power releases him, the demon runs for the door, slamming into the invisible barrier of the trap. He bangs his fist against it, looking frantically between Bobby and Dean.

"Get me out of here." His eyes roll in his head, whites showing like a frightened horse. "I'll tell you everything. Why he woke up every night screaming."

Dean takes a step forward, heart pounding in his chest.

"I'll tell you everything he doesn’t want you to know. All the ways he wants y–"

"No, you won't," Sam says and Dean stumbles to a stop.

Sam's fist is clenched again. He's standing at the edge of his chain, right ankle held back behind him by the pull of it.

"I told you what your future would be if you stood against me. You should have listened." Sam closes his eyes and holds out both hands, muscles straining as he pushes down. The vein at his temple throbs. Blood drips slow and dark from his nose.

The demon falls to his knees, coughing up blots of black smoke that fall to the floor and sink through, leaving sparks of hellfire behind until finally Christian's body jerks, and collapses in a heap.

Dean gapes at Sam. Beside him Bobby is cursing under his breath.

"What?” Sam quirks his head to the side and shrugs. “He wasn't one of mine."

It's true. All of it. Power like that can only come from one place. Sam has demon blood in him. Azazel crept into Sam's nursery when he was a baby and poisoned Sam. Dean's stomach rolls. Acidic bile creeping up the back of his throat. The Sam that Dean knew would have been horrified by the idea of it. It would have torn him up inside. Maybe it did and this is what's left.

But Dean doesn't care about the demon, doesn't even care about the powers right now. They're only the symptom of something worse. Something terrible that was done to Sam and Dean just wants to get closer, wants to tell Sam that it doesn't matter. They're still brothers. He wants to beg Sam to let him help. He can fix this. He can find a way.

"Sam?" Dean takes a tentative step forward.

“I told you that you were in over your head. See there’s two kinds of power in the world, Dean. Knowledge and brute force.” Sam wipes the back of his hand under his nose, smearing the blood around his mouth. “And the only thing better than having one, is having both.”

Dean stares at Sam, the dark shine of his eyes, the heaving of his broad shoulders, the proud tilt of his head, and wonders for the first time if this Sam is really his.

The sound of footsteps pounding down the hall breaks through the quiet. Gwen comes skidding to a halt in the open doorway, Mark and one of the guards hot on her heels. Her eyes catch on Sam's and they exchange a long, loaded look.

"What the hell happened," Mark pants.

"Christian was possessed," Bobby says. "Sam exorcised him. Or something like it, anyway."

"Possessed?" Gwen asks. "How long?"

"Not long," Sam answers with a shrug, eyes still locked on Gwen's. "Probably waited until you were gone. Less eyes and all that."

"He's probably right," Gwen mutters, clasping her necklace tight in her hand and staring at Sam. A slow smile spreads across Sam’s face and he walks back to his cot, finally breaking eye contact.

Something about the exchange sets Dean's nerves on edge. But Gwen grits her teeth and walks into the cell, slow and labored like she's pushing through molasses, until she's crossed the threshold and kneeling next to Christian inside the devil's trap, taking his pulse.

"He's alive," she says and motions for the guard to help her.

"C'mon," Mark says and pulls at Dean's shoulder, trying to get him to move away from the cell.

"No," Dean says, eyes still locked on his brother. In his peripherals he can see Gwen and the guard pulling Christian out of the cell. "I need to talk to Sam."

"No way," Mark says, "I'm sorry man, but priority's got to be figuring out how the hell this happened."

Dean wants to protest, but Bobby claps a hand on his other shoulder. "C'mon, Dean. Let's take a moment to regroup."

Dean grits his teeth but nods. He watches Sam – perched on the edge of his cot, blood smeared around his mouth, his fingers tapping an easy rhythm against his knee – until the closing door cuts off his view .

 

…

 

Dean's phone rings as soon as he and Bobby step out of the complex. He fishes it out of his pocket and glances at the screen.

"It's Ash."

"Answer it," Bobby says. "Don't let on what we know. Let's see what he wants."

“You think Gwen told him?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

Dean nods, squares his shoulders, and answers.

"Ash."

"Hey Dean, listen, I need you on that hunt."

Dean straightens up, "You found another hunt nearby?" Dean asks.

"Still the one down in Thompsonville.”

Dean catches Bobby’s eyes and sees the tick in his jaw.

“Kind of busy here,” Dean says, working to keep his voice even.

“I really need you to check it out, man. I’ve been keeping an eye on the situation and things are heating up. I've got another missing person."

Except there is no new missing person, because Ellen and Jo are still keeping watch and would have told them if something went sideways. Thompsonville only looked like a hunt at first glance, and because Ash was backing it up. Ash doesn’t make mistakes like that. His record has been impeccable this last year, like he knew where hunts would be even before they hit the papers. Every time Dean knocked one hunt out, Ash had another lined up at the plate. And they were never a bust.

"It was a bust," Dean says, voice sounding flat and lifeless to his own ears.

"What?" Ash asks, and there's a tremble in his voice, slight but there.

Bobby snatches the phone from Dean. “What Dean’s saying is that hunt don’t look like much and we’re busy here with Sam. Can’t you send someone else?”

Dean catches on quick, nods at Bobby. “I heard Ellen and Jo were close by. Why not send them?”

“No can do,” Ash says, “They’re busy with a poltergeist in West Virginia.”

Dean grits his teeth against the blatant lie. If he’s lying about knowing where Jo and Ellen are, Dean has to assume he’s lying about the hunt, too. The only reason Ash could have for sending Dean on a bogus hunt is trying to get him out of the way. Which might fit with him partnering up with the Campbells, except for how Gwen herself just admitted they needed Dean here. They've got no reason to lure him away when he only got here two days ago . Which means Ash might be working some other angle.

“C’mon Dean, you love knocking the heads off of blood suckers, and I need you on this. My program is still running through the info you gave me and I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” Bobby says and hangs up. The grim twist of his mouth tells Dean they’re on the same page. Ash may be working with the Campbells but it isn’t all he’s doing.

“What the hell?” Dean asks, arms flying wide.

Bobby’s eyes skate around the empty lot and he shakes his head. “Not here,” he says and guides Dean back to the car.

 

…

 

Dean throws open the door to the motel and goes straight for the bottle of whiskey on the dresser. Screw it being 9:00am he needs a drink.

“So Ash is lying, but you’ve suspected something from the beginning. Care to share now?” Dean takes a swig and slides the bottle to Bobby over the table.

“I don’t know what to tell you other than he’s been cagey with us for awhile. But once I started thinking he might be the source, I knew he had to have another angle. Because whoever the Campbell’s source was, had to know way more about what was going on then they did based on the design of that cell.”

“So what’s the angle?” Dean asks. He grabs a seat at the table, pulling the whiskey bottle towards him and picking at the label.

“Well, there have been three people telling you to leave ever since you showed up. Ash, Bela, and Sam.”

Dean’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “Are you saying he’s working with Sam? But he helped build the cage that Sam’s locked in. Besides, how would they even commun-” Dean trails off, a picture of Sam’s fingers tapping on his thigh filling his head. “It’s a tap code.”

Dean scrambles for his computer, opening the top and waking it up. The video program is still open and Dean cues up the clip he watched last night, fastforwarding to the end.

“A what now?” Bobby asks.

“Here, look. Watch his hand.” Dean says, and presses play. On screen Dean walks out of the cell and Sam starts tapping. “I didn’t recognize it at first because he switches fingers for each number in the set. It makes it harder to recognize, but once you see it, it’s even easier to read. No chance on missing where the split in the set is.”

Dean draws out the letter matrix on a scrap piece of paper, five by five with C and K doubling up. “When we were kids, Dad taught us morse code, tap code, anything he could think of that we might need to communicate. Sam loved that shit. It was one big puzzle to him.”

“Hell of a catch, Dean,” Bobby says as he restarts the video. “You ready.”

“Go for it,” Dean says. He tries to keep his racing heart in check and focus only on the task at hand as Bobby calls out numbers. Two and two. G. One and five. E. Four and four. T. They work through the message until it starts to repeat.

“Get him out.” Bobby slumps back in his chair, raises his cap to smooth out his hair and settles it back lower over his eyes.

“Ash called for the first time right after that meeting. You’re right. They’re working together. But why lock Sam in a cell like that?”

“You said that Sam told you he was right where he wanted to be. We already suspected he was hiding from angels. Maybe this is another layer of that.”

“So what, it’s a panic room?”

“With guards that will fight anything supernatural that comes their way while keeping the rest of the hunter community off his back. I don’t know, Dean, but it could be.”

“I need to see, Sam.”

“With what happened today, the Campbells are on lockdown. They won’t let you in 'til tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Then we need to find that journal,” Dean jumps up, stalks to the corner of the room, and grabs Sam's duffel, ripping the zipper open. He turns the whole thing upside down over the bed and shakes.

"We've got to find it," Dean says, and paws through the heap of clothes on, but the journals not there. "Check the crate."

"It's not there, Dean."

"Check again," Dean snaps. There's got to be something here, some clue to go on. He checks through Sam's bathroom kit, tossing half-used Motel 6 shampoo bottles down on the bed. He's patting down the pockets on a pair of Sam's jeans when he hears the crinkle of paper.

Hope swells in Dean's chest and he shoves his hand in the pocket and pulls out a slim piece of paper. But when he unfolds it, it's only a receipt. For a Salad Shaker from three weeks ago.

The image of Sam kicked back in a diner chair, shaking his stupid salad with a plastic fork hanging out of his mouth makes Dean's heart clench. For a wild second, he can hear Sam's laugh as Dean cracks some dumb joke, see the way Sam's nose scrunches as he tries to keep the fork from falling from his mouth.

Dean wants his brother. God, he wants his brother back. He crumples the receipt in his fist and tosses it at the trashcan.

"Dean," Bobby sighs, but Dean isn't listening because he's an idiot. He forgot about the trashcan he brought back from Detroit.

Dean rushes over to the table, snatching the metal trashcan out from underneath it. The pen, the broken glasses, and the burnt pieces of paper are all still there. Dean pulls out the twisted glasses frame and holds them up so Bobby can see.

"Wait a second," Bobby says and he snags Bela's package from the dresser and pulls out the glasses, snatching the broken frames from Dean. They're both thick, square frames made of translucent, black plastic. They're drug store frames, a dime a dozen, but they've got the same brand stamped in silver on the left arm.

"They're the same," Dean says.

"Makes sense. Sam would need some way to see through the enchantment, too."

"Problem is," Dean says as he reaches into the trashcan and pulls out a few of the pieces of paper that aren't burnt to a crisp, "Sam must have burnt the journal."

Dean sorts frantically through the ashes, pulling out any piece that’s not completely burnt.

"There enough there to piece anything together?" Bobby asks. He comes over to Dean's side and starts arranging the pieces, looking for ones that match. “This won’t get us much.”

“But it might get us something.” Dean pulls out another piece and hands it over.

“Hmm, seen one like this,” Bobby says as he runs a finger over the edge. He scans the pieces on the table and finds the matching one. He lines them up, nudging them together on the table and Dean dives back in the can to look for more.

“Dean, look,” Bobby says, pointing at the table.

Dean looks back in time to see a faint glow as the two pieces he lined up fuse together.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes, “It’s like it wants to be put back together.”

“Well, let’s not disappoint it,” Bobby says and they both search through the pieces with hectic energy.

“Got one,” Bobby says, and holds up two scraps.

He sets them on the table and lines them up. The light shines along the seam and another piece from the pile shivers, and slides across the table, pulled like a magnet as it falls into place with the others. When the light dissipates, all the pieces have merged into one.

"Well, I'll be damned," Bobby says and turns back to the pile as Dean pulls more fragments from the can.

"Got another here," Bobby says and inches them toward each other.

Dean grabs Bobby's wrist. "Hold up, I want to try something.”

Dean shovels up all the pieces on the table and dumps them back in the can. He takes the two matching pieces from Bobby, lays them carefully on the pile of ash, and pushes them together until their edges meet. The glow spreads along the tear until the pieces merge. Dean’s heart is in his throat, hoping for something more.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Dean chants under his breath and stares in the trashcan, but nothing happens. “Damn it.”

“Give it a second,” Bobby says and nods at the newly joined piece of paper. It’s still glowing.

As Dean watches, the glow spreads and brightens until there’s a flash of blinding light and he has to turn his head away against the brightness. When it dissipates, Dean peers back inside. The ash is gone and in it’s place, Sam's journal lies tipped on it's side. Dean pulls it out, rubs his hand over the leather cover, ribbed and whorled like a fingerprint, and looks up at Bobby with wide eyes.

"Good thinking, kid." Bobby says, and claps Dean on the shoulder.

Dean lays the journal on the table and pages through it. The code is an incomprehensible jumble of letters from different alphabets and random symbols, but somehow it still looks like Sam’s handwriting. The strokes are angular and neat, drifting off the line toward the far side of the page.

The center pages catch Dean’s attention, make him pause and focus in. The symbols here are etched in deep lines. The pen pressed hard against the paper when they were written, the lines retraced over and over. The same phrasing of symbols repeated across the page in different sizes and different angles, the handwritten version of ‘all work and no play’ straight out of the shining. He turns past it to see what the rest of the journal looks like and is relieved to see the normal text return.

“You ready for this?” Bobby asks handing Dean Bela’s glasses. When Dean looks at him, stomach twisting with anxiety, Bobby pushes the whiskey bottle to Dean’s elbow. “Just start at the beginning.”

Dean takes a deep breath and slips the glasses on. He flips the journal open to a random page near the beginning. The symbols swirl and dance and Dean’s temples throb with a queasy ache until the letters settle into something solid. Something that Dean can read.  
  
There's a date at the top of the page and below that a block of shaky text.

  
_August 26, 2006_

  
_Nighttime. A voice. Dean. Pain, then nothing. Numbness. Dean calls my name. Black. Angry voices. What am I supposed to do? Stop crying. Do something. Gravel skidding. Desperate rage. Black dress. Red eyes. Black bargain. Morning._  
  
Dean's stomach drops as he scans over the next block of text.  
  
_September 3, 2006_  
  
_Something is coming. A drop of blood. A crying baby. It's you. Blood and fire. You were always my favorite. Fall to your knees in the mud. Wake up and be damned._  
  
Dean flips forward another handful of pages, a desperate energy rising up in him. This can't be all there is.  
  
_January 14, 2007_  
  
_Pinned like a bug, white eyes. Hellhound. Where? There. Slashed open, sightless. Nothing is right now. Meat hooks and Sam sam sam. Pick up the knife. Don't pick up the knife. It has to be you. They want it to be you. Don't send the cavalry too soon. It was always going to be you._  
  
Dean flips through the journal. The whole first half is the same. Nonsensical ramblings, each dated, some with notes in the margins, but none of it makes sense, none of it sounds like Sam, none of it sounds sane.  
  
"Jesus, Sam, what happened to you."  
  
Dean's needs to step away and catch his breath. He pushes the glasses up onto his head and drops the book on the table. It's spine clacks against the tabletop and it falls open to the well-worn center pages.  
  
Dean leans over for a closer look. It's the pages that caught his eye on the first read-through. The same two phrases scribbled over and over. He swallows against the feeling of dread that’s creeping up the back of his throat and puts the glasses back on. What he reads makes his blood run cold.  
  
"What the hell, Bobby?"  
  
"What is it?”

Dean just shakes his head, unable to find the words.

“Let me see those glasses." Bobby holds out his hand to Dean.  
  
Dean hesitates for a moment, not sure he wants to share this, even with Bobby. Not sure how he'll react. Dean slides the glasses off, sets them on the opened journal and pushes the whole pile over.  
  
Dean bites his lip and picks at the edge of his sleeve while Bobby snatches them up and glances over the page. Bobby's whole body freezes, every muscle going tight. When he reaches up to pull off the glasses, his hand is unsteady. He pushes them and the journal back to Dean and takes a swig straight from the bottle of whiskey.  
  
"I mean, what the hell?"  
  
Even through the lens of the glasses resting on the open journal, Dean can see the decoded writing, the message that Sam had scrawled across that page, over and over and over again.  
  
_Save Dean, save_ _Dean,_ _save Dean._

 

...

 

Dean spends hours pouring over Sam’s journal, desperate to figure out what it all means. The journal is dense, full of information, and completely overwhelming. It would take days to read it all, weeks to really understand it, and they don’t have that kind of time. Bobby continues to sift through the surveillance footage for more messages, but when Dean gets stuck, he talks it out with him, passing the glasses back and forth.

The first half is more of those short, disjointed and dated entries. A crazy mix of description, emotion, and dialog that jumps back and forth with no discernable pattern. Dean comes to recognize them as visions or dreams, or some combination of both, as he picks out snippets of visions he knows Sam had about Azazel’s other golden children. They soon veer off into territory that Dean can’t recognize at all.

They increase in frequency until Sam stops dating the entries, and Dean knows it’s because Sam’s screaming nightmares started coming every day. Towards the end the dreams change. They begin with new sequences but all end the same and Sam develops a kind of shorthand for it. _The deal. The broken promise. The death. The blood and the break. You will never recover. Never be the same._ It fills Dean with a sinking feeling of dread, like something huge is waiting in the watchful dark, but he can’t make sense of it.

When he reaches the center pages, he runs his fingers over his name in Sam’s frantic hand. The lines driven deep in the paper by the force of his writing, like the idea had infected him and the only way to survive it was to force it out.

It isn’t until the next section that Dean understands what Sam wanted to save him from. This portion of the journal is easier to parse, though no less dense. Here Sam pieced together information from dozens of visions into outlines of events. Dean flips through the pages, getting a sense for how many there are. But he keeps coming back to the first entry, because it’s from Cold Oak and that was before Sam got the journal.

Dean reads an account of finding Sam in Cold Oak that is painfully familiar, but horrifically different. The knife that glanced across Sam’s side as he spun out of the way instead severing his spine. Sam falling to his knees to die in Dean's arms as they sink into the mud.

Then comes the deal. At the end of the account comes a little notation. _If this can change, it can all change. I can fix it._ It’s one of only a handful of such notes that Dean will ever find. The second half of the journal is stripped bare of Sam’s thoughts and feelings, leaving room only for meticulous future calculations.

Dean was supposed to go to hell. He sits back in his chair and tries to get a handle on his feelings but they’re too turbulent. Filling Bobby in helps some, seeing the same shell-shocked look on his face.

In the back they find a timeline and a list of major players with short descriptions. Alistair and Gabriel, Zachariah and Ruby. There’s more insights that go beyond this crisis and years down the line, more information in the journal then they have time to take in, but they triage as best as they can. They read about angels and the seals. Sam popping the last one in a demon blood fueled revenge fantasy, then paying for his mistake by tandem jumping into the cage with Lucifer. They read about the rings, see them sketched out on the page. Dean stares at them, overwhelmed and numb.

“Well, one thing’s clear,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Angels are dicks, and Lucifer wants to jump Sam’s bones.”

“Do we know that? We’ve been played this whole time by pretty much everyone. Everything in this journal could be a lie.”

“Come on. That is one hell of a ruse.” Dean doesn’t want to believe the journal could be fake. It doesn’t feel fake, but then what does Dean know. His brother was having hellish visions of the future right under his nose for months.

“Bela is working for Sam, and she’s the one who told us to find it. I’m not saying it can’t be real, I’m saying we need to be careful. And if it is real, we don’t even know where we are in the timeline. Things are too different.”

“So we find a piece of intel we can verify. Something no one working with Sam can touch. Something angelic, maybe. Seems pretty clear from here that most angel’s are dick bags. And I know just who we can ask.”

“What have you got in mind?”

“Castiel. He didn’t seem too happy with how things are going in Heaven and he was out looking for information. I think he’ll help us. Plus, he’s going to want to know that the angels were helping break the seals.”

"Alright then," Bobby says. "But I'm coming with you."

Dean knows better than to try and talk him out of it so he nods his thanks. "First things first, though," Dean says and pulls out the picture of Sam's scarred chest and taps the anchoring symbol opposite Sam’s tattoo. "I want one of those."

 

…

 

Dean prays to Castiel in advance, and lets him know he wants to meet and that he’ll follow up with details. They've gone Southeast this time and stop at the first abandoned building they see once they cross the Illinois border.

The barn stands alone down a dirt two track, gray boards still mostly intact but for a few missing planks near the door. There's not another building in sight, and that suits Dean just fine.

Once inside, they paint banishing sigils in a few strategic places. Bobby insists on using his blood, but Dean draws a few of his own. Bobby pulls a can of black spray paint from his bag and starts on a devil's trap inside the front doors, sweeping away debris with his hand as he goes.

Dean raises an eyebrow at him but Bobby just shrugs.

"I like to be prepared."

"Can't argue with that," Dean says and grabs an old broom from the corner to sweep away rotting hay and termite dust from the rafters to make Bobby's work easier.

Bobby pops the cap back on the can and tosses it towards his bag.

"You ready?"

"As I can be." Dean walks into the center of the room while Bobby takes his place against the wall near one of the sigils that's hidden from view by an upturned wheelbarrow.

"Castiel, we need to talk. I'm in an old barn off of County Rd 12 in Indiana, about a mile and half outside Stapleton."

Dean waits with held breath, spinning a small circle, scanning the the barn. The sound of wings rings loud in his ears and when he turns back to where he started, he's nose to nose with Castiel.

"Shit," Dean jumps backward, heart beating triple time. "Personal space, man."

Castiel stares impassively at Dean. "Hello Dean. What is it that you wanted to speak about?"

"Last time we met, you said you thought things weren't quiet on the level in Heaven." Dean says and Castiel inclines his head. "Well, I think I've got intel that can tell you why, but I need your help to confirm it.

"What intel," Castiel asks, stepping back into Dean's space.

"Sam had a journal. He was recording visions he had of the future, but we've got no idea if it's still accurate or where we are in the timeline."

Two shadows break off from the wall as a man and a women in impeccable suits with dark, slicked-back hair step into the room.

"This journal," a voice says, drifting in from the back where another man steps into the light. He's tall, in his forties and balding. He fixes his cuffs and fixes Dean with a disdainful look. "You have it with you, I assume. I'm going to need to see it."

"Castiel, what the hell is this?"

Castiel takes a step back, angling his body away from Dean and refusing to meet his eyes.

"Don't blame Castiel. He's the brawn of this operation and he was just following orders." The angel says and advances on Dean.

"Oh and I guess that makes you the brains."

"Well, if the shoe fits," the guy says with a smug grin. "Grab them."

Dean spins on his heel, runs for the support beam where a sigil waits. Two angels appear in front of him, grab him by the upper arms. He bucks against the brutal grip but he can't break free.

Bobby is frogmarched from the shadows by an angel gripping his shoulders and shoving him forward.

"Who the hell are you," Dean snaps, lip curling as he gives the lead angel a once over.

"Watch your tone, boy. I'm the angel tasked with getting your yes, so it wouldn't do to piss me off."

Castiel flinches and looks up, eyes fixed on the angel as he steps into Dean's space. "You said you only wished to speak with him."

The angel waves a dismissive hand, "What? We’re speaking."

"If Lucifer has not risen, as you assured me then there is no reason for this haste," Castiel insists, and edge to his voice.

The angel turns sharp eyes on Castiel, jaw drawn and tight. "Relax, Castiel. Have a little faith. All will be revealed."

Dean scoffs. “Arrogant, hates humans, desperate for a yes so he doesn’t get the ax? You must be Zachariah,” Dean says and bears his teeth in a smile when Zachariah scowls. “Well, Zeke, I hate to break it to you, but I won't say yes. Michael's going to have to find some other suit to wear to the prom."

Zachariah adjusts his cuffs and breaks into a boardroom grin, he nods at the other angels and they release Dean and Bobby’s arms and step back. "Don't be so hasty. I'm here to make a deal with you, this doesn't have to be unpleasant.

"Now I know what you're thinking. What does he have that I could want? But that's the interesting thing about humans," Zachariah says, grinning wide. "They have so many needs. Like air, for one."

Zachariah snaps his fingers and Bobby falls gasping to the floor. His hands fly up and clutch at his throat.

"What did you do?" Dean snarls. He lunges forward, but strong arms grab him from behind.

"No lungs," Zachariah nods in satisfaction, "How long do can humans last without oxygen? A minute, maybe three."

"You dick. Fix him." Dean lunges forward, inches from grabbing Zachariah by the throat, when he snaps his fingers. Pain lances through Dean's gut, burning hot and bright. He chokes and something clogs in the back of his throat. Dean coughs and blood splatters across the floor.

Castiel pushes up into Zechariah's face. "This is not what we agreed on. This is not the way to secure the vessel's consent."

"A yes is a yes, and we're out of time to play nice. This apocalypse is a runaway train, our plans are destroyed, all because some mud monkey decided he knew better than the hosts of heaven."

"This is not God's plan," Castiel says and pushes past Zachariah, reaching for Dean.  

"Get him out of here," Zachariah says.

The two angels guarding Dean blink out and reappear next to Castiel. They drag him back. Castiel catches Dean's eyes and Dean watches as the shock is pushed out by a fierce determination.

Castiel flicks his wrist and a silver blade slides from his sleeve into his hand just as all three angels blink out of the room.

"Now where were we," Zachariah says, advancing on Dean. "Ah yeas, dirty grandpa is suffocating, you've got a perforated stomach. I hear it's a nasty way to go. I can make it all stop right now, all you've got to do is agree to serve as Michael's vessel. Don't you want to help kill the Devil and save the world?"

"Screw you." Dean spits a mouthful of blood at Zachariah's feet.

Zachariah grimaces and steps over the blood spatter to loom over Dean. Castiel blinks back into the room, shoulder heaving as he pants, blade tipped red. He nods at Dean then flashes out. He reappears an instant latter, grappling with the angel standing over Bobby where he writhes on the floor.

"Ok, change of plans," Zachariah says and grabs Dean by the throat, hauling him to his feet. His coat flaps open and Dean catches a glint of silver at his waist as Zachariah pins him against the pillar.

"Time for a change of scenery." Zachariah closes his eyes, but nothing happens. "What the hell?"

"Not going anywhere with you," Dean grins, blood dripping from his lips. "A little trick I picked up from my mud-monkey brother."

"You little worm." Zachariah shakes Dean by the throat and Dean grabs his wrist, digs his fingers in, trying to relieve the pressure.

A scream and a blinding flash of light draw Zachariah's attention. The angel Castiel was fighting slumps down to the floor, Castiel's blade embedded in his chest.

The acidic burn in Dean's gut makes his hands shake, but he learned how to pick pockets when he was twelve. His hand snakes viper quick under Zachariah's coat and grips the blade.

He pulls the blade out, flips it in his hand and swings it at Zachariah's head. Zachariah, eyes wide in shock, turns his head right into the arc of the blade, driving it through his cheek and out through the opposite temple.

A bright surge of light makes Dean slam his eyes shut as Zachariah's hand falls away and Dean slumps back against the pillar.

When he opens them, Castiel is crouched beside Bobby, fingers laid against his forehead. Bobby twitches and takes in a gasping breath. Castiel eases him into sitting and Bobby turns wide eyes on Dean.

"You o-" a violent cough cuts Dean off and he falls to his knees, retching blood as pain slices through his body.

A warm hand lands on the crown of his bent head, a pulse of energy travelling through his system and the pain recedes as if it had never been.  When he looks up, Castiel is holding out his hand. Dean takes it and lets himself be pulled to his feet.

“Well we know Sam’s journal got one thing right,” Dean says catching Bobby’s eye. “Angels are dicks. No offense Castiel, thanks for saving our bacon. What made you change your mind?”

"I did not-" Castiel trails off to look down where Zachariah lies, wings a sooty silhouette across the dirty ground. "He swore he would answer all my questions, if only I would bring him to speak with you."

Castiel looks to Bobby, then to Dean and inclines his head. "I am sorry."

"Well," Bobby says, "you can make it up to us by telling us what's going on in Heaven that's got you so desperate for answers."

"And what did he mean by a runaway apocalypse? How far along is this thing?"

"I do not know," Castiel says. "Lilith lives, and our superiors all tell us that the cage remains unopened, but we heard Heaven's alarms. We felt the shockwaves as if Lucifer were freed, but it should not be possible."

"Maybe they're lying to you," Bobby says and nods at Zachariah’s body. “We already know they’re capable of it.”

"What does your gut tell you?" Dean asks.

Castiel looks down at his stomach and then back up at Dean, his brow furrowed. "My stomach cannot speak."

Dean laughs, fear and adrenaline fuelled relief tumbling out of him, until he's breathless. "It's an expression, Cas. It means what are your instincts telling you?"

"Cas?" Castiel blinks and his lips twitch.

Dean snorts again.

"It's a nickname, apparently," Bobby says, glancing at Dean with a skeptical eye.

"A nickname," Cas repeats flatly. "Humans are very strange."

"You can say that again," Bobby says and when Cas opens his mouth to speak, Bobby throws up a hand. "Another expression. You don't actually have to say it again."

"I see," Cas says though from the scrunch of his brow, Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t.

Dean wipes at the tears gathered in the corner of his eyes. It feels good to laugh, let out a little of the tension that's been keeping Dean wound tight for the last few days.

"So your instincts, Cas. What do you think happened?" Dean asks, sobering up.

Castiel blinks and his eyes glaze over as he thinks. When they snap back to Dean's they are a focused and intense blue, almost glowing.

"I believe Lucifer is free, and I believe the angels are being lied to. You said you know where your brother is?”

“Yeah, he’s on angelic lockdown. We think he may be hiding from Lucifer and if he finds him, we may need backup. Can we call on you."

"I will do what I can. Although prayer may no longer be the safest way to reach me."

"I can help with that." Dean opens up the Impala and fishes through the glove compartment until he finds one of his old phones that he keeps charged. He tosses it to Castiel. "I'll call you if we need you."

"I have never used a phone before," Castiel says as he turns it over in his hand.

"You’ll figure it out."

"Very well," Castiel says. “One more thing. When I healed you, I felt why you are hidden from Heaven's sight. Your ribs have been carved with enochian symbols. The angel who did it was very powerful and would have touched you to accomplish such a thing. You would have felt it. It would have been painful."

Dean presses his hand against his side, feeling out the shape of his ribs beneath his skin. "I don't remember anything like that. The first angels to lay hands on me were those two goons you took out."

"I see," Castiel says and tucks the cell phone in his pocket. "I am sure all will become clear in time."

 

...

 

The cell door slams closed behind Dean.

"Hello, Dean," Sam says from his perch on the edge of his cot. His voice echos in the wide-open of the storage tank. "What can I help you with today?"

"You can cut the act Sam." Dean walks further into the room, right outside the radius of Sam's reach. He hovers there, on the edge of the devil's trap.

Sam watches him with a raised eyebrow, but Dean waits until Sam's mouth twists into a smirk. That's when Dean steps into Sam's range. Sam's mouth tightens for a fraction of a second, his eyes flicker wider. He recovers quickly, but it's enough for Dean to know he's got him off balance.

Dean pulls out the journal from where it's tucked in the inside pocket of his jacket and tosses it into Sam's lap.

"What's this," Sam picks up the journal, flips through it, and if Dean weren’t looking for it, he would have missed the way his hand trembles.

"You tell me."

"Looks like useless gibberish," Sam says. He closes the book but he keeps it on his lap, hand resting on it in a way that approximates casual but for the white creeping into his nail beds from the pressure of his grip

"You really think I wouldn't recognize your journal?” Dean asks. “You know, after you left, I thought I was such an idiot for not sticking my nose in your business and reading it when I had the chance. I thought you used that thing to plan your normal life. But that wasn't it at all, was it Sam?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam says, but there's a subtle tremor in his voice that Dean feels right down in his bones.

"I know what I have to do," Dean recites, "I know what I have to become."

Sam shakes his head, eyes flying wide.

"Whatever it takes, I'm going to save him. I'm going to save my brother." Dean continues and watches the calm, in-control mask Sam’s been wearing melt away.

"You can't- how? I burnt it."

"Guess it didn't take,” Dean says.

Sam’s eyes snap to Dean’s. “How much do you know? You can’t have had it long.” Sam wraps the journal up in his arms, all pretense of nonchalance dropped. The way Sam’s clinging to it makes Dean anxious to have it back in his own hands.

“Give me the journal, Sam.” Dean channels his big brother voice, holds out his hand expectantly.

Sam shakes his head, eyes wide and with the earnest pleading that has always gutted Dean. Seeing it here, now, Dean feels like he’s seeing the real Sam for the first time in so, so long.

“Listen, Dean, I know you’re confused and upset, but I need you to get out of here. Leave the journal here and walk away.”

“You’re joking, right. I’m not going anywhere. We are going to sit down and figure this out before Lucifer finds out where you are and tries to jump your bones.”

"You really don't get it, do you," Sam laughs a wild and bitter laugh, his lips trembling around the sound. The very air seems to shudder and a chill creeps down Dean's spine.

"It's too late. He's already here." A shiver shakes through Sam and despite himself, Dean takes a lurching step forward. "You have to go, Dean."

The lights overhead flicker. "Go now" Sam says and there's something deep and terrifying in his voice.

A wind picks up and starts swirling through the room, knocking Dean back on his heels, ripping the journal from Sam’s hand. Dean staggers back a few steps and another gust slams into him, and he loses his footing and skids back across the cell, crashing into the door. The journal thuds into the door by Dean’s feet and he dives for it before it can slide away.

The door opens while Dean is scrambling to his feet and one of the guards curses under his breath and snakes his arm around Dean's waist hauling him backwards.

Sam's body arches, the lights pop and whine and flash like lightning. An inky shadow unfurls across the floor. Wings. The last things Dean sees before the cell door slams closed are Sam's eyes, glowing red, watching Dean from under the fall of his hair.

Lucifer.

Dean shakes off the guard and scrambles back for the door, but the guard pushes him away and the other aims his gun at Dean’s head. As Dean looks between the barrel of the gun and the door, the numbness that’s gathered in his fingers and toes spreads to his gut, twisting into a roiling mass and stealing Dean’s breath. There isn’t enough air, he needs to get out, he needs to breathe. He spins on his heel and storms down the hallway. The monitoring room is in chaos. Voices call back and forth. Dean picks up his pace.

"What the fuck was that?" Mark shouts sticking his head into the hallway.

Dean doesn't stop. He can't let them get their hands on Sam's journal. He breaks into a run, feet pounding as he races down the hall.

"Dean!" Mark shouts after him.

Dean bursts out into the fresh air. He braces his hands over his knees and tries to catch his breath. Someone steps out into the lot behind him, but Dean doesn’t turn around, too busy trying to process what happened.

Lucifer is in Sam, and Dean has read enough of Sam’s journal to know there’s only one reason for Sam to let that happen. He means to gather the rings and put the devil back in the box.

“I’ve got him,” Bobby says, “Give me a minute.”

The door clicks closed and Bobby comes up behind Dean, feet crunching across the broken macadam.

“How much did you see?” Dean asks.

“Not much. The cameras cut out.”

“We’re idiots, Bobby.” Dean takes one last deep breath and faces Bobby. “Sam wasn’t hiding from Lucifer. He was containing him. He already said yes.”

Bobbys mouth presses into a grim line and he tips his head down, hiding his eyes in the shadow of the brim. “Goddammit.”

The door to the refinery creaks open and Gwen sticks her head out.  “You guys ok?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “just give us a minute.”

Gwen steps out anyway, closing the door behind her. She’s playing with her necklace again, flipping the gold ring back and forth. She’s watching them with an intensity that for a moment is edged in something hungry, but when Dean blinks all that’s left is solicitous concern. It’s not the first time that’s happened with Gwen and it sets Dean’s mind racing.

He can’t put his finger on any one thing exactly, but something’s not right. It’s in the way she’s being so attentive, the way she’s constantly playing with the ring on that necklace, how the ring seems oddly familiar. It's in the way the demon said it had to wait until she was gone, and the loaded look she shared with Sam. It’s in the way she crossed into the modified devil’s trap in Sam’s cell like she had to push through it.

He thinks of the way Sam smiled when he saw the ring. It had seemed out of place then, but now it makes an awful kind of sense. Because he had seen that ring before, read it's description in Sam's journal. War's ring.

“Christo,” Dean says.

Gwen flinches and her eyes blink milky white.

"Lilith."

 

...

 

**Middlegame**

**March 2009**

 

Sam races through the convent, footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. He takes the corner too fast, sliding as he turns into the long hall. At the end, tall wooden doors straight from his nightmares stand cracked open. Sam’s chest heaves, taking in great, gulping breaths, the metallic tang of blood tainting each one as he creeps closer to the doors.

Light flickers through the gap, the orange of flames and something crackling white. Sam peers through, angling back until he can see Lilith, spread like a crucifixion across the floor, her blond hair matted with blood.

A long faced man with a square jaw and spidery limbs hovers over her with an angel blade in his hand. Alistair. He flicks his wrist, a flash of light. A trickle of blood. 

"If you knew what Lucifer thought of us, if you felt how he despises us, you'd join me," Lilith says.

Alistair hums, wide mouth pulling into a smirk. "As long as I have my work, what do I care?"

He draws his blade in a smooth line down her cheek. Lilith hisses and the pool of blood beneath her grows, seeping across the ground in strange patterns. The seal already preparing to break. He has to hurry.

“Stop playing and bleed her properly," another voice says.

Sam ventures closer to the door to see the other man. A crisp blue suit, white shirt glowing against the black umber of his skin. Uriel, perfect.

Sam digs deep within himself, reaching for the power coiled up and waiting. It’s hard to access without demon blood, but he knows how it feels, how it works. He’s seen it. Felt it in his dreams. He kicks in the doors, sliding into the room with a hand raised. He pushes, twists, and Alistair goes flying into Uriel, skidding through the blood to smash into the wall.

Pain explodes behind Sam’s eyes, and a warm gush of blood slides down his face. He rushes to Lilith’s side, gathers her in his arms, and prays.

“Anna.”

Anna blinks into the room, lays hands on them and then they’re on the ground in front of the convent. Sam shoves Lilith into Anna’s arms, ignores her grumbled, “Took you long enough.”

“Get her out of here,” Sam says and races to the threshold of main entrance.

The jar of herbed and enspelled oil is still sitting there. He snatches the brush from it and with three harried strokes, lays in the last sigil just as a pair of black dress shoes appears in his line of sight. Sam drops the brush and scrambles back.

Uriel and Alistair are both standing in the doorway. Uriel lunges for Sam and smashes into an invisible barrier, staggering back. Alistair cocks his head and holds out a hand, feeling along the warding.

“Very clever,” Alistair hums.

“Abomination,” Uriel spits, “release me.”

“I would,” Sam says, “but once these wards are laid, there’s only one way to break them. It takes the grace of an angel."

Uriel presses a hand to the barrier, eyes closing as his hand goes white. The barrier pulses, but doesn't falter.

"I'm afraid it will take more grace than that," Sam says.

"More?" Uriel's lip curls into a snarl.

"All of it," Sam says.

Uriel’s face goes slack and he turns wary eyes on Alistair.

“Ah, I thought I recognized these wards. So nice of you to get me a present, Sam.” Alistair grins and rounds on Uriel.

"Alistair, wait. I'll call for reinforcements."

"And who will come?" Allistair asks. "How many winged rats do you have left on your side?"

"We had a deal," Uriel says, wings bristling in the shadow behind him.

“We did, but after this failure I suspect you've outlived your uselessness. No hard feelings, of course.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Uriel says, backing further into the convent.

“Oh, but I would.” Alistair stalks after him.

Sam listens to the sounds of their fighting. The building shakes, metal clinks and lights flash. Uriel screams and white light pours from the building and soaks into the line of warding. Alistair makes his way back to the entrance, one arm hanging limp by his side, face and chest covered in cuts.

He walks to the threshold and slams into the barrier. He flicks Sam a mock stern look.

“You’re a liar, Sam Winchester.”

“I am,” Sam says. “The wards needed the grace, but not for the reason you thought.”

The convent starts to shake, rock dust falling all around them. A loud crack breaks through the night and the walls start to collapse falling inward. When it’s done, the convent is a crater of rubble. Only Alistair and the entrance stairway left intact.

“Game over,” Sam says, and draws the colt.

“You’re awful proud of yourself,” Alistair says with a spreading smirk. “But even now you can’t win.”

“I don’t know,” Sam says, “the seal is unbroken and I just destroyed any hope you had of a second chance. Looks to me like I won.” He pulls the trigger and doesn’t bother to watch Alistair’s body spark as it falls, even though his words still ring in Sam’s ears.


	5. Chapter 5

**Endgame**

**September 2009**

 

Lilith heaves a sigh and the film of white leaches from her eyes. “Are we going to have a problem here, boys?”

Bobby grunts and draws his gun.

“Aw, come on now, Bobby,” Lilith says, her voice saccharine sweet. “Put that thing away, or someone might get hurt.”

“You’re working with Sam,” Bobby says, catching up quick as he always does.

“That’s right,” Lilith says. “Sammy and me, we’re going to save the world.”

“Save the world?” Dean asks. “Weren’t you supposed to be Lucifer’s loyal dog?”

“Loyalty goes both ways,” Lilith snaps. “Besides, let’s just say Sam is very persuasive. All those nightmarish visions that tore up his brain, the ones he never told you about? He let me in. Showed me everything.”

She taps her forehead, voice dropping to a whisper. “And I’ll tell you what, little Sammy’s one hell of a ride.”

Dean takes a swing at her, anger rising up in him so hard and so fast he doesn’t even think about it. Bobby grabs his fist before it can connect, pushes Dean’s arm back to his side.

“Sam’s broken tattoo. That’s cause he gave you a front row seat to what he’d seen. And you just suddenly decided the apocalypse didn’t look like fun anymore?”

“I decided I didn’t want to die for an ungrateful angel throwing a temper tantrum for Daddy’s attention. Now if you’re done wasting time, we better work some things out. Let’s go see if Sammy’s got Lucifer back on lockdown.”

Lilith leads them back into the refinery, waving off Mark and Christian as she goes, smiling Gwen’s reassuring smile.

When the cell door opens, Sam’s standing by the cot, head tipped back and staring at the ceiling.

“You’re not supposed to be here. I was so close. A couple more days and it would have been over.” Sam says, and his voice cracks, “why couldn’t you just leave?”

“Close to what, Sam?” Bobby steps further into the room and Sam finally turns to look at them. His face is drawn into tired lines, frustration pinching the corners of his mouth.

He looks exactly like he did after his worst fights with Dad, after the anger melted away. Helpless and hopeless. Everything Dean wanted to say, everything he wanted to ask backs up in his throat and he can’t make a sound.

“How much have you read?” Sam asks, “You know about Lucifer and the apocalypse?”

“Yeah,” Bobby says.

“The rings? The cage?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you know what I have to do. Lucifer has to go back in the pit. It’s the only way,” Sam sighs. “Me in the pit, that’s the best shake we get.”

“We?” explodes out of Dean in a rush. “You’ve done everything you could to make sure there wasn’t a we. I don’t get it, Sam. I understand putting the devil in the box, but all this,” Dean gestures at the cell, “pushing us away, getting yourself caged. Letting people think you’re evil? How does any of it make sense.”

“You’re right,” Lilith laughs, “you really don’t get it. The Campbells and the cell all have their uses. But the theatrics are all for you. Isn’t that right, Sam.”

“Stop,” Sam says.

“What? He wants to know. Sam wanted you out of the picture to keep you safe, but once the seals failed and Lucifer got out, he needed a safe place to keep him locked down.” Lilith turns in a circle, arms outspread to take in the cell.

“If you needed a safe house, Sam, we would have built you one,” Dean says.

“But it isn’t just a safe house. It’s a story. We all knew the rumors by then. Running around with a pack of demons stopping seals from falling is bound to get you noticed, and people do tend to think the worst. Sam let the rumor mill run and built himself a cage all so if you ever found out, all you’d hear was a vague story about Sammy gone bad and how he disappeared one day. And since you’d been estranged for so long already, there wouldn’t be anything to mourn because he clearly wasn’t the brother you knew anymore.” Lilith grins wide at Dean. “Sweet, right. Or at least I think so, but human emotions are confusing.”

Sam can’t really believe that Dean could ever be satisfied by that story, can he? He may have walked away when he thought Sam was starting a new life and didn’t want him there anymore, but the second he heard tale of Sam running with demons he started looking again.

“Lilith, that’s enough.” Sam snaps. “Wait outside.”

“Oh, come on, Sam. I’m just telling him the truth.” Lilith says, her exaggerated pout looking out of place on Gwen’s face.

“Wait outside.” Sam says and his voice is deep and resonate. “And get the colt ready. They’ll be taking it when they leave.”

“Sam-”

“As a sign of good faith,” Sam says, eyes sharp. “They won’t use it on you. No one wants to break our deal. Right?” Sam turns those sharp eyes on Bobby and Dean.

“As a sign of good faith,” Bobby echos.

Lilith huffs and waves a dismissive hand as she leaves, but her mouth is twisted in displeasure.

“Was she telling the truth?” Dean asks. “Because if she was, that is some of the stupidest shit I have ever heard.”

“Stupid?” Sam says, voice incredulous. “It’s stupid to want to keep Ellen and Jo alive? Jo has a shot at becoming a great hunter, one of the best. And she’s in it for the right reasons, just like you. Think of all the people she could save. You’d rather see her gutted by a hellhound? You want to see Ellen blow herself up?”

Sam rounds on Dean, advancing until the chain clatters, drawing him up short. “Or maybe you want to see Bobby stab himself, sell his soul, get shot in the head? How about this, do you want to become a demon, Dean? Want your own shiny pair of black eyes?”

Dean’s stomach cramps like he got socked in the gut. He knew there was more in Sam’s journal that he hadn’t parsed through yet, but that? The stuff beyond the seals and the Devil, Dean has ignored because he’s had to. Bobby dead, Dean a demon. He’s going to be sick.

“With everything you know,” Bobby says, stepping forward and keeping his voice calm, “we could have helped.”

“That’s the problem,” Sam says, “the more I change things, the less I can predict what will happen. The farther you are from me, the safer you are.”

“Screw safe,” Dean snarls, voice rising. “It’s my job to protect you!”

“No,” Sam says, taking Dean’s ire and throwing it right back in his face. “No. It’s my turn. You’ve given up everything for me and it’s time someone put you first, for once in your life.”

“This is putting me first? Lying to me, pushing away, manipulating me?” Dean asks, voice cracking open.

“Don’t you get it. You never had a chance Dean. None of you did. The second you knew I was in trouble, you would have all come running. It’s who you are. I’m the only one who has to be here. I’m the one with the demon blood, I’m the one who should carry it. And you’re angry I get it. I took away this one choice, but I did it so you could have a shot at something better. A whole life of choices you never had before. I wasn’t going to let you die for me, not again.”

Dean’s stomach drops straight to the floor and keeps on going. The way Sam’s talking about it scares him worse than any demon he’s ever faced.

"I promised you I would save you, over and over and I failed. I'm going to get it right this time."

“Sam,” Dean says, shaking the journal. “I never died. You never promised me anything. These are visions, it’s not real. It never happened.”

“It’s real. It is. I lived it every night. I felt it. It happened,” Sam says, a hectic light in his eyes as his hands curl into fists. "Maybe not to us, but somewhere, to some other you and me, it happened. I know it. And I’m going to fix it. I’m going to do it right this time. Please, let me do this for you. All you have to do is walk away.”

Sam is vibrating in his bones, huge, and desperate, and half insane. Dean has to look away, filled with the gnawing urge to run. To Sam, or from him, or straight to heaven to throttle God, he doesn’t know.

“Not happening," Bobby says, "and you know that. We aren't going anywhere. Besides,  you need to get the rings and from the looks of things, Lilith’s only got the one.” 

“We’re going to help you get them,” Dean says, reeling himself in and catching Sam’s eyes, gets lost in the familiar stubborn glint in them that Dean knows so well. But Dean won't back down, this is not negotiable and he can tell the moment Sam sees that by the way his sholders slump.

“Fine,” Sam says. “The Campbells will be knocking down the door soon anyway. Read up and come back tomorrow. We’ll figure it out.”

Dean tucks the journal back in his jacket, the solid weight of it already familiar. When they make their way to the door, Sam’s voice stops them.

“Hey Bobby, can you hang back a second?”

Dean tamps down on the ugly feeling swirling in his guts when Bobby nods, and Dean has to leave them alone in the room.

Lilith lets him out of the cell and Dean leans back against the wall, stares at the rust stains until their edges blur, and tries not to think. But he can still feel Lilith’s eyes on him.

“I should exorcise you right now,” Dean says.

“Well, now, I don’t think Sam would appreciate that much.” Lilith leans against the wall opposite Dean and grins, “But if it’s Gwen you’re concerned about, don’t worry. She’s dead. One of Sam’s little conditions. No possessing an ensouled body. It’s all me in here.” Lilith runs a hand down the front of Gwen’s body, rolling her hips into the air.

Dean surges forward and fists his hand in Lilith’s shirt, slams her back against the wall. “Screw you.”

Lilith’s grin turns gleeful and her eyes flood white. “You’re just jealous that I know Sammy’s rules and you don’t. You’ve been strutting around here thinking you’re the only one who really knows Sam, but that’s not true at all, is it?

“You spent this last year distracting yourself with every easy hunt Sam could get Ash to throw at you, while I’ve been the one at his side. And all it took was Sam letting you see us together a handful of times for you to fuck off and leave him with me, exactly like he knew you would.”

Dean drops Lilith like he’s been burned, turns his back on her to run a hand over his mouth and blink back the sting in his eyes. “You were the blonde woman I saw him with.”

“That’s right. I liked that body. So did Sam. A little too skinny if you ask me. But coma patients, what can you do?”

Something in the back of Dean’s mind clicks in place. “All those people who woke up from comas and then disappeared last year?”

“Sam’s personal demon army,” Lilith says, and Dean can hear the smirk in her voice.

A bang on the cell door cuts through the tension, and Lilith tugs it open to let Bobby out. He’s got his cap pulled down low over his eyes and a carefully blank expression. One of the guards is coming down the hallway toward them so Lilith closes the cell.

“Visiting hours are over,” she says in Gwen’s voice and walks them out.

Outside, Lilith goes to her truck and pulls a leather wrapped package from a secret compartment under the backseat.

“There’s only three bullets left in there, so use them wisely,” she says and hands it over to Dean.

Dean unwraps the leather, and even through all of the crap that has fallen on his head, nothing can dampen his satisfaction when he sees the colt’s long, thin barrel. He runs his fingers along the intricate carvings, and smiles.

“Hello, beautiful.”

 

…

 

Jo’s jeep is in the motel lot when they return and the light is on in their room.

“Did you tell them where we were?”  Dean asks.

“Nope,” Bobby says, “but when has that ever stopped them.”

Dean swipes a hand over his mouth. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea for them to be here.” He’s an ass for saying it. He knows he’s running a play from Sam’s book, but Sam had a point. If they know what’s going on they’re going to jump in with both feet. That’s who they are. The difference is that Sam’s fights are Dean’s fights, always, but they don’t have to be the Harvelle’s.

Bobby fixes Dean with an unamused glare that speaks volumes on the irony of Dean echoing Sam’s thoughts. “You want to try and turn them away, be my guest. But what’s next? You going to send me away, too?”

Dean doesn’t have an answer for that, so he heads inside. Ellen’s sitting at the table, reading through the Campbell’s file. Jo’s watching the footage from Sam’s cell, flipping her favorite knife back and forth in her hand.

“Your laptop password was as easy to crack as that shitty motel door,” Jo says by way of greeting.

“Hello to you, too, Joanna,” Dean says and Jo rolls her eyes like he knew she would.

“Looks like you boys have really stepped in it. Why don’t you catch us up,” Ellen says.

Dean lets Bobby take the lead in explaining. He watches Ellen’s face turn stony and Jo’s get angrier and angrier. Listening to it all laid out makes Dean feel like his guts are being twisted up and yanked out. He needs some air, needs to do something, so he steps outside.

It’s cold out, fall settling in over the trees as they go yellow in stuttering increments. Dean takes in a rib-expanding breath and pulls out his phone.

Ash answers on the third ring.

“Dean.” His voice is rough, falls like a lead weight. He knows. Whether Lilith called, or he saw on the surveillance footage, he knows they’re on to him.

“Yeah,” Dean says, losing momentum. Silence thickens over the line and Dean listens to Ash shift on the other end. “Why didn’t you bring me in?”

“It’s not that simple.” Ash says.

“For once, just tell me the truth. Don’t make me beg, man.”

“I-I’m supposed to be dead,” Ash blurts, and Dean tenses. “Fried extra crispy like the rest of the Roadhouse. I don’t think that made it into the journal. It was back at the beginning before we really understood what was happening.

“Sam only saw a couple flashes, something about pretzels, a time on my watch, and me burnt up, but it was enough. When it came I knew to get out, and because I got out, we got to the gate faster, set-up better, and closed the gate earlier than we were supposed to. Three little impressions and all that changed. He saved me, and a lot of other people, too. That kind of power and all he wanted to do was save everyone.”

Dean can’t choke the bitter laugh. “Then how do you explain him making deals with demons and holding the contract on Bela’s soul. Her soul, Ash.”

“Dean,” Ash says, quiet and gentle, like Dean should know better and Dean bristles. “The second he got Bela’s contract from Lilith, he destroyed it. He let her believe he had it because he needed her. She’s free.”

“Fuck, Sam.” Dean tilts his head back, stares at the darkening sky. His eyes burn and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s tired, or angry, or he wants his brother so goddamn bad. “You should have told me”

“Listen, I’m s-”

“Don’t say it.” Dean snaps. “Don’t you dare.”

When he goes back inside, Jo’s fuming, pacing back and forth. “Let me get this straight. We get benched because we supposedly die in some fight that’s never going to happen because everything is already different.” She throws up her hands. “I mean, has anyone even seen this Meg demon around?”

“Jo,” Ellen warns, catching the half-dead look on Dean’s face.

“Man, am I sick of people telling me when I can and can’t hunt,” Jo says, slumping down to sit on the bed. “Ok. So tell us more about the rings.”

 

...

 

Mark leads them down to Sam's cell. Dean walks beside Jo. She's tense, uncomfortable and mad still, and Dean gets it but he can't deal with it right now. So he pays attention to the way she's counting steps under her breath and noting hallways. It's smart. Preparing to navigate out if the lights should go dark.

Sam was right. Jo's going to be a great hunter. If she survives. It hits him then that she's supposed to die in two months. Ripped apart by hellhounds in a failed attempt to kill the Devil. A tangled mix of grief and protectiveness clogs Dean's throat. He's not going to let anything like that happen. He ignores the voice in the back of his head that says that's exactly what Sam was trying to do.

The guards at the cell door look surprised to see Mark bringing four people to see Sam, but Mark waves a staying hand.

"Do as they ask," Mark says. "They're trying to get some info for the hunt Gwen's on. Stay out unless things get hairy. I'll radio you." Mark pats the handheld radio clipped to his belt.

The guard shrugs and starts unlocking the door.

"Why don't you give us a couple of minutes and then come in," Bobby says to Ellen and Jo.

Jo grits her teeth in annoyance, but Ellen nods and pulls Jo out of view of the opening door.

Dean and Bobby slip in and the door closes behind them. Sam is bent over the sink, hands resting on the rim and staring into the low mirror on the half wall. His mouth is tilted down in a frown, but for a heart stopping second, Dean sees his reflection smirking back.

"Shut up," Sam whispers and whirls away from the mirror. He startles when he sees Bobby and Dean in the room with him. His eyes flicker to the door and back and he shuffles awkwardly back to the bed, sitting on the edge and wringing his folded hands in his lap.

"You alright, Sam?" Bobby asks.

"Yeah, of course. Sorry," Sam says, running a hand through his hair.

Bobby nods, letting whatever else was going on slide. "I notice Lilith isn't here."

"She's got a line on Pestilence and is going after his ring. He's a pretty nasty horseman. It's probably best if you let her handle it."

"You really trust her with an errand like that?" Dean asks.

"I trust the deal," Sam says, eyes flashing with the same determination he's carried with him since he was a teenager. "Did you bring the journal?"

Dean reaches into his coat, pulling it from the inside pocket. He tosses it over and Sam snags it out of the air. He flips through some pages until reaches a point a little over three quarters of the way through and passes it back to Dean.

"It's a little hard to tell when it's in code, but that should be the right section."

"So we need to work on the other two rings. Famine and Death, right?" Bobby asks.

"Yeah," Sam nods. He's fiddling with his hands again and Dean wants to grab them, stop them from fidgeting. Somehow the distance feels too big, like if he crosses into Sam’s orbit he's never going to be able to get back out. So he stays exactly where he is. "Ash should have a bead on Famine by now. Fighting him will suck, but it’s doable. It’s Death that I’m worried about. I don't know where he stands right now. He helped us last time because he was bound and he thought angels were spoiled brats, but this time?" Sam shrugs.

Dean grits his teeth against the way Sam says last time, as if the things in his journal actually happened. As if it's real. But it isn't and Dean is already so sick of hearing about this other Dean and Sam. He tries to remember that it is real to Sam.

"Alright, we'll figure it out," Bobby says. "Want to tell us about what was going on when we came in?"

Dean wasn't sure Bobby caught that, and is surprised to hear him call Sam out on it.

Sam swallows, and ducks his head. "I'm starting to lose my grip on him."

"What the hell does that mean," Dean asks, dread welling up in his gut.

"I'm-" Sam starts, but the screech of the door opening cuts him off and his attention snaps to the front of the cell.

Ellen and Jo pass through the door and Sam jumps to his feet, chain rattling around his bare ankle. Whipping his head around to Dean, Sam catches his eyes and shakes his head.

"No. How could you?"

Dean ignores the way his stomach twists at the betrayed look on Sam's face, but Sam doesn't have a damn leg to stand on here.

Ellen marches straight past Dean, right into the devil's trap and into Sam's space. She raises her hand and slaps Sam across the face, but Dean can tell she pulled her strength. The crack is quiet and ends with her hand cupped around Sam's cheek.

"How could _you?_ " she asks, and pulls Sam down into a hug.

Sam has to curl down for her to reach her arms up over his shoulders. His hands hang limp by his side for a long moment, then twitch and he brings them up to rest gently against Ellen's back. Ellen tightens her grip, arms creasing the white fabric of Sam's shirt.

"We're family, Sam. We help each other and we tell each other the truth. It's what we do."

Sam's breath shudders out of him and he wraps his arms solidly around Ellen and squeezes.

Beside Dean, Jo snorts and crosses her arms over her chest. It's quiet enough that Ellen and Sam don't hear it. And it's a damn good thing, too. Dean wants Sam to have this. Hell, he wishes he could embrace Sam like that. Wishes they were like that. Wishes he could do it without falling apart at the seams.

Satisfied, Ellen steps back, her hand sliding along the collar of Sam's shirt. Her hand catches in the fabric, bending it out of shape over Sam's shoulder and she freezes. Sam jolts backward and rushes to straighten his collar. He won't meet Ellen's eyes. The dread that quieted under the force of Ellen's arrival surges up in Dean.

"What was that?" Ellen asks, reaching back up to Sam's shoulder, but Sam steps back out of the way.

"Sam," Dean demands.

Sam meets Dean's eyes for a long moment and Dean can see fear in them, and it sticks in him like a hook, jerks him forward a step.

Sam pulls down the collar of his shirt. At the base of his neck and creeping down onto his shoulder is a patch of raw skin. Layers have been rubbed away in uneven patches, like popped blisters. But underneath the skin isn't raw pink. It's flat and gray. Dead.

Ellen's hand flies to her mouth and Dean can hear Jo's sympathetic hiss of pain, but he can't take his eyes off of Sam.

"Lucifer's grace is toxic," Sam says, "His vessel is supposed to drink a lot of demon blood to withstand it. I couldn't – wouldn’t –  do that. I tried to reinforce myself with some protective runes and spells, but I guess they didn't work so well."

Sam says it like he’s talking about a design flaw in some kid's science fair project when it’s his body. Dean wants to curse or scream or punch something until his knuckles bleed.

"We need to hurry," Sam says and lets his shirt fall back into place. "If it gets to the runes, I won't be able to hold him for long. The room should keep him in, but if he gains control, then you’re going to have to figure out how to pop him back in the box. We need to get the rings as soon as we can."

"Guess it's a good thing you have some backup then," Jo says, and though her voice is tight, some of the anger has gone out of it.

Sam meets her eyes for the first time and nods. "Yeah, I guess it is."

"So how do we do this," Ellen asks.

"Ash is running a search for Famine. He told Lilith he was close before she left. But I still haven't figured out how to approach Death."

"Gee, what’s so hard about that?" Jo says and swipes a hand over her face. "Death. Right. Crap."

“What could go wrong,” Bobby agrees.

Dean’s phone rings out, breaking the silence. Gwen flashes across his screen.

“What do you want?”

“I need to talk to Sam. Now.”

Dean wants to argue for the sake of it, but there’s an urgency in her voice that stops him. He puts the phone on speaker, and moves closer to Sam, holding the phone between them.

“Go ahead,” Dean says.

“Sam. I’ve got one of Pestilences handlers. The shipment is still on.”

“What? No, we tanked the research at Niveus.”

“Well, they found another company. Smaller. Regional distribution only but they’re moving it tomorrow and it’ll be enough to get real ugly real fast.”

“What shipment?” Jo whispers to Dean.

Dean shrugs and pulls the glasses out of his pocket. He slips them on and flips the journal to the section Sam marked for him. He scans over the pages and one word jumps out.

“Croatoan,” Dean breathes, and Bobby curses under his breath. Sam’s eyes catch his and he nods.

“Please tell me the distribution center is in Chicago.” Sam says.

“St. Louis. But if they’re on the move with that, it means they ready for the final push. We need to get the rings now.”

Sam’s mouth works, but no sound comes out. He looks from Bobby, to Ellen, to Jo, and finally to Dean. His carefully laid plans are falling further apart, and Dean can see the fear in Sam’s eyes.

“We’ll handle it,” Dean says. “You focus on getting Pestilence’s ring.”

The argument that follows is one for the record books. Sam doesn’t want them to get involved, but they can all see that there’s no alternative.

Jo’s sharp whistle cuts through the noise. “We’re here. We’re helping. It’s our choice. Besides what good is sidelining us, if it brings about the apocalypse?”

The room falls silent. All eyes turn to Jo, except for Sam who hangs his head, face hidden by the fall of his hair.

“Ok, then,” Jo says. “Mom and I will take St. Louis, Bobby and Dean can handle Famine.”

“You’ll need three,” Sam says. “If it’s anything like last time, you’ll need three.”

“Bobby, go with them. I’ve got back up,” Dean says and waves his phone. “Got my own personal guardian angel on speed dial.”

Sam sighs, and catches Dean’s eyes. “All right. If you’re doing this, then here’s what to expect.”

 

...

 

It is full dark when they pull into the diner parking lot with the headlights off. Castiel is silent in the car beside him as they scan the area. A few cars sit in the lot under the streetlights, but there are no cars or people on the street. Dean considers his options, how cautious he needs to be as he approaches, but there is no movement inside the diner.

He slips out off the car, pulls out the colt and approaches the building. The lights are all off even though it's only eight o'clock, and the hours on the door say it's open until ten. Dean cups his hand against the glass door and peers inside, tries to see through the glare from the parking lot lights.  
  
A few shadows linger in strange places, slumped over tables or cutting through the squares of light that stretch across the floor from the windows. Dean recognizes those inert shapes, knows them to be bodies. The dump of adrenaline in his system makes his senses sharper and he swears he can hear his own heartbeat.  
  
Cas moves up beside Dean. He closes his eyes for a long moment, head tilting as he stretches his senses.  
  
"I detect no demons," Cas says and then shifts. His brows crease and a look of confusion flits across his face. "Do you smell that?"  
  
"What, sulfur?" Dean sniffs the air, but he can't smell anything but the wet leaves scattered across the parking lot.  
  
Castiel's expression smooths out and he shakes his head. "It's nothing. We should proceed." He reaches his hand out to force the door open and Dean grabs his wrist.  
  
"We better come in round the back. Just in case," Dean says. They move around the back passing a few cars parked beside the dumpster, staff most likely, but everything is quiet. Nothing out of place but for how still it is.  
  
It isn't until they step inside the unlocked back door that Dean smells it. Burnt meat. One step further into the kitchen and he hears the sizzling. A man slumps over the griddle, face smashed against the surface, skin black and smoking. There's still half cooked burger falling out of his mouth and a meat fork shoved down his throat, his left hand still holding the handle.  
  
Bile creeps up the back of Dean's throat and he pulls his collar up over his nose. He reaches over and turns the griddle off, grabs the cook by the back of his shirt and pulls, ignoring the sound of his blackened skin peeling away as Dean eases him to the floor.  
  
He turns to ask Cas if this is what he smelled, but he's no longer behind Dean.  
  
"Shit," Dean mutters, and brings the colt up in both hands. There's another cook slumped in the corner, but Dean lets his eyes skip over him without taking in too much detail, only looking to make sure he's dead. Still, he can't help but see the prescription pill bottle next to his limp hand.  
  
Dean sidles up to the doors into the main diner and peeks through the window into the next room. It’s empty but for the dead and Cas standing next to a table where the corpses of a family slouch in their seats. His hand hovers over the half eaten burgers on the table, fingers twitching.  
  
"Jesus," Dean says, shoulders open the doors. It's grotesque and it's exactly like Sam warned he might encounter. Sam was always reliable like that. Even when he was a kid, his research was solid. So fucking smart. Prepared. Focused. Focus, right, that's what Dean should be doing. He shakes his head to clear it. "I think it's safe to say Famine was here, but where the hell did he go?"  
  
There are at least a dozen people dead in the small room. A dozen people whose souls were devoured by famine. His eyes catch on a kid in a booth at the end. There's an industrial sized tub of ice cream melting in front of him and Dean doesn't understand what happened until he catches the glint of a medical alert bracelet around his wrist. Dean's hand tightens around the colt. He can't wait to kill the bastard.  
  
"Cas, we need to figure out where he went. Can you track him?" Dean asks and turns back to Cas. Castiel doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge Dean, all his attention on the table in front of him.  
  
“Something in the food?” Dean asks.  
  
"No," Castiel says, that furrow in his brow etched deeper than before, "it's just food."  
  
"Ok. Well, we've got more important things to do then contemplate some dead guy's half-chewed burger. Can you track Famine or not?" They need to wrap this up so he can get back to Sam. The sooner the better.  
  
Castiel tears himself away from the diner table and his hand hovers over his stomach. "I believe I will be able to sense if we grow closer."  
  
"So we just need to know what direction to go in. I'll call Ash." Dean says and walks up to Cas. "You ok?"  
  
"I believe I may be affected," Castiel says, and his eyes flit back to the food.  
  
"Ok. That's ok, we knew this might happen. Do you need to get out of here?" Dean lays a cautious hand on Castiel's shoulder.  
  
"No. It is too late. Once you are infected, the hunger will follow you," Castiel says. "But you are alright? You are unaffected?"  
  
Dean shrugs, "I feel fine."  
  
At least he will when he gets back to Sam. Castiel nods and Dean leads him out of the diner.  Five minutes later, they’re cruising down Main Street, heading to the other side of town.  
  
"Is that all you got?" Dean asks. He tries to keep his voice neutral, but the coldness creeps in. Ash kept Dean from Sam for more than a year. It doesn't matter that he was doing what Sam asked. Sam is Dean's, always has been. Ash didn't have the right. Dean shoves down the squirming anxiety that is creeping through his gut long enough to focus on Ash's response.  
  
"There's only one traffic cam in town, and their big ass SUV caravan passed it an hour ago going west on Main. I'll keep looking, but that's the best I can do for now."  
  
"Fine." Dean says, "Any word from the others?"  
  
"They're still an hour out from the factory," Ash says. The phone crackles and Ash takes a deep breath, "Dean, listen–"  
  
"Save it," Dean cuts him off. That anxious weight worms through his gut again. Dean's about to end the call when a faint ding rings across the line.  
  
"Wait, I got something," Ash says, "Looks like some hedge fund asshole has a vacation home outside of town and he's having a shindig tonight. Lots of rich folk parading around in their finery. Sounds like the kind of party famine might like to crash."  
  
"How the hell did you figure that out?"  
  
"Facebook, man. That place is a stalker’s wet dream. No one on there’s heard of TMI," Ash says. "I'll text you the address."

...

  
A camero is crashed into wrought iron gate that stands half-opened at the end of the long, curving drive. The front end is crumpled and smoking. The windshield spiderwebbed with cracks in front of the driver's seat.  
  
Dean inches the Impala through what's left of the gate. As he passes the camero, he looks in through the window. A woman in a black and white maid's uniform sprawls across the front seat, blood from her head sprayed across the plastic shopping bag stuffed full of silver and jewelry.  
  
"It would seem we are in the right place," Castiel says.  
  
"Yeah," Dean says and picks up speed as they ascend the driveway.  
  
Three black Cadillac's sit in the turn around in front of the house. Dean parks beside one, hoping it will shield the Impala from anyone looking through the front windows of the house.  
  
"Let's get this show on the road," Dean says. "We need to wrap this shit up and get back to Sam." There isn't much time left and he left Sam unprotected.  
  
Castiel gives Dean a quick once over, that stupid furrow back, but he nods and gets out of the car when Dean does.  
  
They make their way up the stone stairs and through the mahogany doors that stand ajar. Inside, warm light spills from the chandelier in the foyer and the house is silent but for a strange sucking sound that echos from a room down the hall.  
  
"Be cautious," Castiel warns in a hoarse whisper, "Famine is here and I sense demons nearby, but I cannot determine how many."  
  
Dean nods and brings the colt to bear. They move down the hall. They press up against the wall outside of the doorway to a well-lit room. Dean can barely see the shoulder of a man in a suit and a sideboard loaded with fine china and mini pastries on a tiered display. The sound of rushing air and suction makes Dean uneasy, but there isn't time to waste. They need to hurry.  
  
He swings into the room, firing the colt as he moves. The suited demon beside the door jerks, light flashing under his skin as he collapses to the floor. Castiel follows close behind, angel blade in his hands. The remaining four demons lurch in their direction, but Castiel's flashing eyes forestall them.  
  
At the head of the table, a skeletal man with wispy white hair sits in an electric wheelchair, an oxygen cannula hanging down from his back-flung head. His mouth is open wide, a bright white light drawn into the vacuum of his mouth. Famine.  
  
Around the long wooden table, the bodies of men in dinner jackets and women in cocktail dresses sit in the high-backed chairs. Some still holding utensils, one with his fist clenched around a bottle of vodka. There's a couple in the corner half naked and mouths fused, blood pooled on the ground around them. Dean doesn't look close enough to figure out where it's coming from. There isn't time. He needs to get back to Sam.  
  
Famine's cavernous mouth slams closed, the last of the soul's glow disappearing behind his teeth.  
  
"New guests. How delicious" Famine breathes, voice reedy and high as he squirms in his chair. His eyes flicker down to the colt Dean has leveled at his head. His thin laugh wheezes out of his mouth, slinking between his jagged teeth. "I'm a horseman, Dean, you can't kill me. Not even with that."  
  
The gun falters in Dean's hand. "You know who I am?"  
  
His mind is racing. Sam said there were five things the colt couldn't kill. That could mean the four horseman and Lucifer. But the math doesn’t add up. If Michael could be killed with the colt, there’s no reason for the big showdown at high noon. That doesn’t even take God or Death into account. Dean let's his attention flash to the ring on the horseman's right hand before focusing back on his face.  
  
"Oh yes, Dean. I know you. I can see what you hunger for. You and your rogue angel."  
  
Dean laughs this time, "Sorry, don't think your mojo works on me. And Castiel here," Dean says nodding to Cas. Who isn't beside him anymore. Shit, he really needs to stop doing that.  
  
Castiel has moved further into the room, hovering behind one of the empty chairs, eyeing the roast beef, his angel blade hanging slack from his hand.  
  
The demons that ring the room stand at ease, smirks on their faces as they watch Castiel tremble.  
  
"Your angel is cut off from heaven. His vessel's hungers are his own, now. You've brought me a rare treat, my boy,” Famine says, lips twitching over the jagged line of his yellow teeth. “I've never tried angel before.”  
  
"Cas," Dean hisses, "I need to you to focus man." Cas grunts, but his blade slips from his hand and he pulls the platter of carved meat toward him, grabbing a handful and bringing it to his mouth.  
  
Dean’s fingers clench around the gun. This isn't working. This is taking too long. They have to hurry. He has to get back to Sam. He's the only one who can protect him. A hunger pang knifes through Dean's gut, anxious energy building in his system.  
  
"Do you still think yourself immune?" Famine wheels out from behind the table, the electric whir of the motor drawing Dean's attention back to him. "Tell me, Dean, what do you hunger for?”  
  
Dean shakes his head. He’s fine. He’s fucking fine.  
  
“Say it,” Famine coaxes, voice a high whine.  
  
For every inch Famine draws closer to Dean, the desire to move, the desperate need to do something, anything, slams through him like a blow to the solar plexus.  
  
"I need- I have to-" No. He’s fine, Dean’s fine. He clenches his teeth against the words trying to spill out of him. Dean’s gut roils and he can almost see Sam alone in the white light of his cell, vulnerable. He bends under the weight of his need, folded at the waist. "Sam," punches out of him on a gasp.  
  
He can’t think through the rapid pulse of his blood. This need surging up in him like a tidal wave. Oh, oh God. He has to get out of here. He has to get back to Sam. He has to protect him. Sam is all alone. He left Sam alone.  
  
"Yes, yes, that's it." Famine squirms in his seat again, flashing a crooked grin. "Don't be afraid, Dean. Oh, there's no need to be afraid. Your hunger can save the world."  
  
Screw the world. Dean has to get back to Sam. He's the only thing that matters. He is Dean's world. Dean's only been half alive this last year, just waiting for Sam to come back. Going through the motions. Hunting because he still believes in it, but he would have given it up if Sam had asked. He didn’t let himself think about it then, and Sam never asked. Now Dean knows why. But it's backwards. It's all wrong. It isn't Sam's job to protect Dean. It’s supposed to be the other way around. Dean's legs buckle and he slumps to his knees, protective arm clutched against his cramping stomach.  
  
Famine wheels even closer, an arm span away and Dean struggles to raise the colt.  
  
"Now, now," Famine says. "I won't hurt you. I'll even let you go back to your brother." The gun trembles in Dean’s hand his arm falls back to his side as Famine leans forward in his chair, whispers for Dean's ears alone, "You're the only one who can protect him. You're the only one who can save him."  
  
Save him. Yes, that's what what he needs to do. That’s what he was made for. The thought eases the pain and Dean’s throat unclenches. "Save him?" Dean asks. Sam said it was impossible, but if Famine knows a way...  
  
"You're a vessel. Strong enough to hold an archangel."  
  
Dean's brain is a muddied swirl. Does Famine want him to say yes to Michael? That won't save Sam, not with Lucifer crammed inside of him. But no, Famine said _an_ archangel.  
  
"You're the only one who can free Sam from Lucifer. Unlock the cage, break the runes, and take him in," Famine wheezes, "Save Sam."  
  
Dean's eyes snap to Famine's. Of course. That's why Sam wanted Dean out of the picture, he didn't want him to realize that he could take the Devil instead. Dean could be the one to jump into hell. He can save Sam. Oh thank God, he can save Sammy.  
  
"On your feet now. You have important work to do." Famine leans back in his chair, a self-satisfied grin on his face.  
  
"Yes," Dean chokes out through the thickness in his throat. He is going to save Sam. He struggles back to his feet, panting as he bends over his knees.  
  
"Dean, no," Castiel says, muffled. He's got his angel blade in one hand again, the other pressing a fistfull of meat against his mouth.  
  
Dean shakes his head, tries to clear it. He has to go, he has to get back to Sam. But as he looks at Castiel trying to fight through the hunger, he remembers what he said. If Dean goes, the hunger goes with him. This furious need to get to Sam, to do whatever it takes to save him will follow him. And no matter how right it feels, if Famine wants it then it can't be good. And he would be doing exactly what Sam did to him. Taking the choice out of Sam’s hands and throwing himself on the grenade without any of the protections from Lucifer's control.  
  
"You know what you have to do," Famine says. Dean nods without thinking, a puppet whose string has been jerked, and the loss of control sends a bolt of fear racing through him. He has to fight. The colt is still in his hand, and Famine is so close, his ring glinting against the wheelchair’s armrest. There's another way to get rid of the hunger and get back to Sam. And there's a knife in Dean’s boot.  
  
Dean staggers, lets himself fall back to his knees and palms the knife from his boot. The hilt is warm from his body and Dean tightens his fingers around it, pushes back the feeling telling him to run until he can lay hands on his little brother, and lunges forward.  
  
The demons behind him curse, footsteps rush towards him but Castiel grunts. An electric crackle sizzles through the air and a meaty thud shakes the floor. Dean grabs Famine's wrists, flips the knife in his hand, drives it down with all his strength.  
  
Famine arches and screams. Three fingers tumble to the ground and Dean snatches up the one with the ring on it. His mind clears instantly, swirling emotions settling to something manageable.  
  
He spins on his heel to face the rest of the room, but the last demon is already burning out under Castiel's hand. It falls to the ground, eyes still smoking. The handful of greasy meat falls from Cas’s fingers and he leans down to retrieve his angel blade from the throat of another fallen demon. Dean breathes a sigh of relief and rises to his feet.  
  
Famine has his mangled hand cradled to his chest. His eyes are burning with fury, but he laughs. "The hunger is still inside you. You’ll never be rid of it."  
  
"Maybe not," Dean says, and raises the colt, aiming it straight at Famine's head.  
  
"You can't kill me," Famine sneers.  
  
Dean waves Famine’s bloody finger, ring catching the light. "Not exactly a horseman anymore, are you?" he says and pulls the trigger.  
  
Famine's body shudders and jolts. Lightning skitters from the wound along his veins and he lurches forward, collapsing over his own knees.  
  
"Let's get the hell out of here," Dean says. A hunger pang shoots through Dean's stomach but he ignores it. He has to get back to Sam.

 

...

 

They're ten minutes out from the refinery when Castiel gasps and shudders, hand slapping out to brace against the dashboard. Dean startles and the car swerves, tires rolling over the rumble strips.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Dean steadies the car in it's lane and lets his foot ease off the accelerator.

"Something has happened. Someone has been raised." Cas says and his voice is grim.

"Raised? Like from hell?" The idea sits in Dean's gut like curdled milk. They can’t handle another heavy hitter.

"I cannot say for sure, but it is very likely."

“Another demon?” Dean asks.

“No, possibly something worse.” Castiel flicks a look at Dean that makes his fists clench against the steering wheel. Something almost pitying in it. "There are other potential vessels for Michael.”

“Damn it, we cannot let them get Michael suited up.”

“I know. I will investigate." Cas squares his shoulders and the pressure that precedes his houdini act fills the Impala.

"Cas, wait," Dean says and Castiel turns curious eyes toward Dean. "Be careful, ok?"

The hard line of Castiel's mouth softens and he inclines his head. "I will." And with that, he vanishes.

 

...

 

When Dean arrives at the refinery, something in the air kicks his body into high alert. This time, he doesn’t ignore it. His muscles tense as he pulls the colt from where it's tucked at the small of his back. There's only one bullet left so he grabs the demon knife and sticks it through his belt over his right hip so it's close to hand. As he approaches the building he notices a sliver of light spilling out across the dark parking lot where the door stands ajar.

He sidles up to the door and steals a quick look through the crack before pressing his back to the wall beside it. He closes his eyes and processes what he saw. A body sprawled across the ground. A puddle of blood. But otherwise the hall was empty. He can hear the distant sounds of something sliding across the ground and smell the rotten tang of sulfur on the air.

There's nothing for it. He's got to go in. He brings the colt up to bear and pushes the door open. It gets stuck a third of the way, something blocking it from behind, so Dean slips through the gap. It's one of the guards. His throat has been slit and blood soaks the floor around him.

Another guard lies a few feet down the hall, chest ripped open in four jagged slashes. Dean steps past the bodies, clearing each door he comes to. The shuffling sound gets louder as Dean approaches the hall to the monitor room, and there’s a trail of blood smeared from the hall to the door. By the time he reaches the closed door, it’s quiet. The blue light from the monitors spilling underneath the door turns the blood trail black.

Dean sets his feet, breathes, kicks in the door, sweeping his the room in a wide arc with the colt. Christian is propped against the wall next to the door, hand clutching his torn open stomach.

“Dean,” he says, and chokes, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t talk." Dean strips off his coat to get at the flannel underneath, taking it off and bunching it in his fist to press against Christian’s gut.

“He killed us,” Christian says, spitting blood at Dean’s feet, “I told them he would.”

“Just hang on,” Dean says, scanning the room for something, anything that can help. When he turns back, Christian’s head hangs limp over his chest.

Dean sits back on his heels, rubbing his hands on his jeans, desperate to wipe away the traces of Christian’s blood. Dean’s eyes flicker up to the monitors, where Sam stands statue still at the end of his chain. Too still. Dean swallows down the dread, and slips his coat back on. He needs to get to Sam.

The tapping of claws against the concrete of the hall makes Dean freeze, strain his ears with listening. A low growl. A huffed breath. Dean’s blood runs cold. He knows what this is. The slashes on the guard, the chunk taken out of Christian’s side, the faint smell of sulfur. Hellhound.

The nails click closer, and Dean rocks onto his feet, winces when his boots creak. The low growl crescendos into frenzied barking. Dean stumbles back from the door. Snarling, snapping, displacing air as it lunges, the hellhound bursts into the room. Dean ducks right, leaping over Christian’s body.

The hound follows, skids through the pool of blood, sliding across the floor. It slams into the table. Monitors crash over, sparking. Dean aims the colt at the bent table leg and fires.

A whimper. Silence.

Dean waits, cult steady in his hands as his blood rushes through him. He’s struck by the phantom pang of claws ripping into his chest, a vivid flash of him on his back, hounds tearing into him. It leaves him shaken and he doesn’t know if it’s an impression from Sam’s journal or something more.

Dean backs out of the room, into the hall. In the main corridor, the empty vessels of four more demons are collapsed a few feet from Mark’s body. Dean is viciously glad Mark took them with him.

Dean inches down the corridor, listening for any more signs of hounds or demons. The sound of voices has him pressing his back against the wall, and sliding up beside thick pieces that travel ceiling to floor. They don’t provide much cover, but it’s something. He peeks around the pipe and sees a guard collapsed on top of a heap of empty vessels.

A woman with dark, wavy hair and a short leather jacket is holding the remaining guard at knife point.

“You did your part. You were all stoic and strong and you said no, and it got your friend killed. Let’s not repeat our mistakes. Now, be a good boy and open the door for me, ok?” the demon croons.

The guard reaches out with shaking hands, unbolts and opens the door.

“Meg, my sweet girl. You sure are a sight,” Sam’s voice says, but it’s all wrong, fake sugar and superiority. “Your Dad would be so proud.”

Meg? Oh, hell no. Dean slips out from his hiding place and inches closer.

“Lucifer,” Meg whispers in wonder, fingers going slack around the guard.

Dean draws the colt, empty now but she doesn’t know it and strides down the corridor. Meg whirls to face him, eyes flashing black.

“Dean Winchester, I do declare.”

“Meg,” Dean says, careful to stay out of sight of the door. “You must be the queen bitch I’ve heard so much about.”

“Well, sweet little Sammy turned Lilith and took out Alistair, so someone had to step up,” Meg grins at Dean and flicks her fingers. The colt goes spiraling from Dean’s hand.

The guard lunges for Meg. She spins out of his grip, flicks her hand. His neck snaps, body thudding to the floor. She spins back to face Dean, catches the thrust of the demon blade in her side. She jerks back and the blade goes with her, caught in her ribs. Not a killing blow, but light flashes under her skin and she groans, staggering backward.

She pulls the knife from her ribs and flips it into an attack grip. Dean dives into her, tackles her into the Devil’s trap, scrambles out of the trap when she slices at him with the blade.

“No,” Meg shouts and pounds on the trap’s barrier. “Not like this. I was so close.”

“Horseshoes and hand grenades,” Dean says and lets an exorcism roll off his tongue. 

As Dean recites it and Meg rages and screams, his eyes keep darting to Sam’s body. It’s preternatural stillness. The hateful look in his eye’s. Meg’s body ejects the last of the demon smoke and she collapses to the ground.

“Lucifer,” Dean says, as he steps over Meg’s vessel and into the cell.

"You look tired, Dean,” Lucifer says. “It’s a shame I couldn’t speak with you sooner, save you some trouble. You on one side, me on the other, that part's pretty much inevitable. Destiny or whatever. You’re wasting your time trying to fight it. Granted the show's been a little slower getting started than I would have liked, but the action scene's coming up quick, I can promise you that."

Sam's body doesn't move. Not a twitch behind the push of his breath and the beat of his pulse. Dean gets what the enochian on Sam's back means now. No movement without the will of the vessel. Sam’s will. When Sam's not in control of his body, his body can't move. It's Lucifer who's behind the wheel, now.

Dean's sat with the knowledge of what was in his brother for long enough now that he's able to keep the gut-twisting horror of it off his face. He calls up a smug smirk instead, because beneath the fear, his chest is swelling with bone-deep pride. Sam might not have been able to keep the seals from breaking, but his Plan B is pretty damn impressive. He couldn't keep the devil in the cage, so he built him a new one. Thatta boy, Sammy.

"I'd say I'm sorry that Sam's fucked up your carefully laid plans, but we both know I'd be lying.” Dean says and stalks further into the cell. Circling Lucifer and making him follow his movement with his eyes since he can’t even turn his head. “Damn it must have felt good to get out of the pit. Bet it was a bit of a shocker to find yourself stepping right into another cage, you smug sonofabitch."

"Careful, Dean, you want to stay on my good side here. You really think he can hold me for much longer. Sam's strong, but he's not that strong. Kid’s falling apart. A little scar tissue and some wards aren't going to stop me for long."

“Yeah, could be. But I think Sammy's got you dead to rights and maybe it won't last forever, but it doesn't have to. You picked the wrong vessel, man, let me tell you. Sam may be a whiny bitch, but he's one stubborn bastard.”

“I know you think you understand Sam. I know you think you love him best, but me and Sammy, we're two halves of the same whole.” Lucifer’s expression goes strangely soft, something almost earnest in his eyes. “I know you see it. It had to be Sam. No one else could contain me, just look how strong he is, how smart, to put all this together. I have to say I'm impressed. Just goes to show that Sam was tailor made for me.

“I get that this is hard for you Dean, I do, but you should know that this isn't your fault. Sam was always going to say yes. So why don't you let me do you both a favor, here. When I get out – and I will get out – you're going to let me go. In return, I won't make Sammy watch me take you apart. There's no reason he has to suffer like that.”

“You take control of my brother's body and I will never stop hunting you down. Whatever it takes, I swear to God I will kill you.”

Anger flashes across Sam's – Lucifer's – face and Dean fights every instinct telling him to step back. His palms are sweaty and his heart is racing because the Devil may not be able to move, but the pure menace pouring off of him is shrinking the room.  Cold air pulses out of him in waves and blackness creeps in at the corners of the cell, Lucifer sucking all the light into himself.

Lucifer tilts his head and twists Sam's lips into a condescending smirk. “I can be a patient guy, Dean, and Sam's worth waiting for, but my patience is wearing thin. Don't push your luck,” the Devil grates out. He opens his mouth again, about to speak when his body jolts and a hurricane of air is sucked like a vacuum into the center of Sam's chest and bursts out like a thunderclap.

Dean drops straight into a crouch and covers his ears. When he opens his eyes, Sam's slumped over his knees breathing hard, hands clenched in his scrubs where they bunch at his knees. His knuckles are nearly as white as the rough fabric.

"Sam? You ok in there? Look at me. Move your arm or something so I know it's you." Sam's breath wheezes in what might be a laugh and he raises a shaky hand to flip Dean off. Dean clears the distance between them in three big strides, falls to his knees next to Sam. He gets his hands on Sam's face and tilts his head so he can look Sam in the eyes.

"You get it? You get the ring?" Sam slurs. His eyes are bright and feverish.

"Yeah Sammy, I got it." Dean keeps one hand cupped around Sam's cheek and uses the hand on Sam's shoulder to help him straighten up. Dean wants to ask Sam what he needs. Wants to take care of him, but he knows that there's only one thing Sam will ask for. He'll ask Dean to help him finish this. "We'll get the rings, but you've got to hold on a little longer. Ok, Sam?"

"I know, I know. I've got him. It's ok."

"Ok," Dean says and lets his hand slide from Sam's cheek to his other shoulder.

He just looks for a minute. Sam's skin is ashen. The rot is creeping up the side of his neck and he's got bruises under his eyes that are bone deep. He looks sick and tired and a little scared and exactly like the one thing Dean's centered his whole life around. This is his little brother, who he fed Spaghetti O's, and taught to tie his shoes. The boy that he promised nothing bad would happen to while Dean was around.

Somehow, when Dean looked away, little Sammy grew up into the man who made deals with demons, subverted the angels he used to pray to, and trapped the Devil inside his own body. And he did all of it for Dean. Sam's changed the whole damn game. The least Dean can do is make sure he gets to the finish line.

Dean moves up to sit on the cot next to Sam so they're pressed together from shoulder to knee, pretends not to notice the way Sam leans into him to keep himself upright. Dean stares at the cell walls, traces the sigils with his eyes and focuses on catching his breath.

"We’re almost there, Sammy. Just one more."

“Yeah, but how do we find Death and how do we get him to give us his ring?” Sam asks.

“You might try lingering in a place of death,” a new voice says, “and speaking my name.”

A man in a black suit, long coat hanging from bony shoulders, steps into view of the open door. He dark eyes are set deep in his skeletal face and he scans the cell with an air of supreme disinterest.

“Death,” Sam says, going rigid beside Dean.

“Hello Sam, Dean.” Death prods Meg’s collapsed vessel with his cane. “It’s a pity you didn’t kill her. She had the audacity to bind me with an unseemly little spell. Though she isn’t strong enough to do much more than prevent me from being used against her. By the time she claws her way back out of hell, she'll be too weak to sustain it."

Death steps over her sprawled legs and crosses the cell to stand before Sam and Dean where they’re pressed together on the cot.

“Still, I dislike being chained. I believe you have need of my ring. I’m inclined to give it to you to teach her a lesson. And it would be a shame to see all of your hard work go to waste.” Death nods his head at Sam. “I have never seen one man throw Heaven and Hell into such chaos. It has been interesting to watch them grapple with just how little control they truly have.”

“Uh, thanks?” Sam says.

“Here’s what you will do. I will give you my ring. You will put Lucifer back in his box. And,” Death says, fixing his dark eyes on Dean, “you will return my ring to me when the task is done. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Sam says, answer knee-jerk fast.

“Sam, wait. Let’s think about this for half a second,” Dean says, a sudden desperate hope lighting him up. “Why not just wait? Let Meg’s power burnout and then you can kill Lucifer.”

“And kill your brother in the process?”

“Surely someone as powerful as you could do it without killing Sam.”

“Don’t be cheeky.” Death leans over his cane and fixes Dean with an unamused stare.  “It’s bad for your health. Now I have no use for angelic ego trips, but the point is moot. By the looks of your brother, Lucifer will be free long before that little upstart’s hold on me breaks. And if Lucifer is free before me, the spell he performs will not be broken so easily.”

“He’s right, Dean. I’m sorry, but he’s right.” Sam’s hands are shaking and a cold sweat has broken out across his forehead. He turns back to Death, squares his shoulders. “We accept your terms.”

“Wise boy,” Death says. He slips off his ring and drops it into Sam’s waiting hand. “Good, now go meet your General, retrieve the other rings, and hold up your end of the deal.”

Death taps his cane once against the floor. A sharp clack rings out, and the floor cracks at the point of impact. Fissures snake out across the floor, up the walls, metal screeching as sigils break apart.

“I believe you should be able to leave the room now.”

Sam’s eyes scan the broken sigils. “Yeah, that should do it.”

 

...

 

Dean thinks they’re home free once they stumble out of the building, Sam’s arm slung over his neck, but as soon as they reach the Impala a loud growl cuts through night air.

“Shit.” Dean really, really hates hellhounds. He slings Sam’s arm over his head and props him up against the car. He wheels around, pulling out the demon blade and scanning for any sign of the hellhound.

“There,” Sam whispers, pointing to a crushed weed where it breaks through the pavement. As Dean watches, it springs back up, the weight removed. It’s enough.

Dean tenses to push Sam out of the way. Gravel skitters across the ground in whuff of breath, and claws rake the blacktop, readying for the lunge. With a rush of air, Castiel appears beside the hound, driving his blade down until the tip hits the pavement. Black blood oozes onto the ground, puddling around his feet.

“I’m sorry for being late. It took me some time to find you.”

“Cas,” Sam says, “It’s good to see you.”

“Sam Winchester.” Cas blinks at Sam, taking in his shaking legs and pale skin. Dean wonders if he can see Lucifer in there, waiting under the surface. "You do not look well.”

Sam laughs and Dean rolls his eyes. “Remind me to teach you about tact later. Did you find out who got raised.”

“No, I was too late. Heaven had already collected them.” Castiel says. He tilts his head, taking in the car. “Where are you going?”

“We’re meeting Lilith for the last two rings, and then I’m putting Lucifer back where he belongs.” Sam says, with confidence. “There’s something you can do to help. The chances that we can get away with this without interference are pretty much zero. We need backup.”

“I will assist however I can.”

“Good,” Sam says with a tight smile. “I need you to track down a trickster for me.”

 

...

 

They drive west as fast as Dean can manage. Lilith calls and updates them on her progress at regular intervals, and it won’t be long now before the meet-up. And Dean can’t think about what happens next.

“Do you really think Gabriel will show?” Dean’s still a little pissed about the whole Archangel masquerading as a trickster thing. It’s unsportsmanlike.

“I don’t know, but he said he’d listen if I called. Besides he’s helped me before.” Sam’s eyes flicker down to Dean’s side.

Dean follows Sam's eyes and a lightbulb goes on. "He's the one who marked my ribs. When?"

"Remember that mystery spot in Flordia?"

Dean has to think back for a minute, and he only remembers it because it was a bust. And Sam was twitchy the whole time. "The missing guy showed back up the day after we got there."

"That's the one," Sam says. "I knew it was Gabriel, so I found him and played him the apocalypse highlight reel. It turns out showing people how they're going to die is a pretty effective recruitment tool."

Sam turns back to the window, lapsing into silence. Dean thinks about Sam hunting with him for months, living a secret life, recruiting angels and demons to his cause. Dean can't even be angry right now, not with Sam sitting beside him, rotting from the inside, ready to jump into the pit forever.

“Listen, I know I’ve got no right to do this, but I’m going to do it anyway.” Sam turns in his seat to face Dean. “I need you to promise that you won’t try to get me out.”

“Fuck that,” Dean snaps. “You saw a future with you out.”

“Yeah, without a soul, and it only gets worse from there. There are consequences for getting me out of there and I won’t be a monster again. So you have to let it go. I’m sorry man, but you just have to.”

“So what the hell am I supposed to do,” Dean says, clenching his fists around the steering wheel. It eats him up the way Sam talks about the world in his visions like it actually happened to him.

“I want you to live. I won’t ask you to stop hunting, but I want you to be careful with your life. To really live. And remember that you’re not alone.” Sam’s eyes are shining, and bright, and so earnest that it hurts to look at. “You’ve got a family. Ellen, Bobby, Jo, they’d do anything for you. So, I don’t know, be a family. Go see them on the holidays or something, have a real dinner. Let yourself be happy.”

“Oh yeah, that’s great.” Dean says, voice cracked-open and raw. “Ellen will cook a turkey, Jo will bake a pie, and Bobby will break out the fine china and we’ll all sit around drinking whiskey and toasting my dead brother. I can’t Sam.”

“Just promise me that you’ll try,” Sam sighs.

When Dean glances over, he can see a new patch of rot where’s crested Sam’s jaw bone and his protests dry up. “Ok. Alright, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Sam says and leans back against the window.

They lapse into silence as the car eats up the miles, and  Sam stares out into the middle distance as the morning hours tick by. Bobby let’s them know that the Croatoan was destroyed and Lilith calls with another update. They’re getting closer. It won’t be long now. Dean watches the odometer tick up as the time he has left with Sam ticks down.

“It wasn't like that," Sam mutters and Dean jumps. He thought Sam had drifted off, but his eyes are slitted open and he's glaring out the window.

"Sam?" Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head like he's shaking off a dream.

"I thought I was doing this for the world, for us, you know? For you. But maybe I was really doing it for me.” Sam says from where he's slumped against the window, curled up into the passenger door like he's a kid again. Dean jumps. Maybe I needed to know I could save you. Or maybe I just wanted to be the one holding the cards for a change. But I screwed it all up. Shit, Dean, I was wrong.”

Dean presses his lips into a thin line. His hands tighten on the steering wheel until he hears the creak of leather.

“Yeah, you were.” He sees Sam flinch from the corner of his eye, but barrels on. “You shouldn't have cut me out. You really think I could ever get over you going to hell, even if you could make me hate you?”

“This was always going to end with me and Lucifer in the pit. Best case scenario.” Sam says with total conviction.

“I know you think you know that.” Sam opens his mouth to protest, so Dean talks over him. “Or saw it. Whatever. But I didn't. I don't get to know that this is the only way, because I wasn't with you every step like I should have been. You backed me into a corner, and now I’ll never know if I could have saved you. It's my job to look after you and I can't do that if you won't let me. I'm gonna carry that with me forever, Sam.”

Dean glances at Sam, and his eyes are swimming and he better not cry because then Dean will really lose it. “But I get it, ok, I do. And I'm here now. I've got your back and I'm going to help you finish this, even if...” God, it's going to kill him. But he can't finish his sentence because Sam is worn so thin that breathing on him wrong seems like it's going to break him.

“I'm sorry, Dean. I couldn't keep all the threads straight. Must have missed something” Sam says, sounding emptied out and so tired that it hurts to listen to.

Dean sees a shudder pass through Sam from the corner of his eye. When he glances at him, Sam's shivering, staring at the sideview mirror.

“What's wrong?”

Sam huffs a bitter laugh. “The devil runs cold,” Sam says as he turns his head and blows a slow breath across the window. It frosts over instantly and Sam traces a pitchfork through the frost.

“Shit.” Dean turns on the heat as high as it will go.

The air coming from the vents is scorching and of course it's blasting Dean right in the face. He works one-handed, glancing between the road and his brother, to aim every vent at Sam. Sam puts his hands to the vents in front of him, and Dean can see them shaking.

Not five minutes later, the car is stifling. Sweat is prickling at Dean's back and under his arms. The back of his shirt is sticking to his skin under his coat and Sam is still shivering. Dean slows the car to a crawl and eases her onto the shoulder.

“Don't stop Dean, we've got to keep moving,” Sam says, eyes locked somewhere outside his window.

“Just give me a minute.” Dean swings open his door and pulls off his coat. He keeps it draped over his arm as he goes to the trunk. It takes him a moment of rummaging, but he finds the old flannel blanket that they stole from a cabin when Sam was 12 and feverish from the flu. He slams the trunk and makes his way to Sam's door.  He has to rap on the window with his knuckles twice before he can get Sam to shift his weight enough that he won't spill out across the ground when Dean opens the door.

Sam is watching him carefully. “We have to keep moving,” Sam says as Dean sets the blanket on the roof. He grabs the coat from over his arm and kneels on the gravel so he can lean in the door.

“We will, we will. C'mon, just lean forward, Sammy.” Dean gets his hand behind Sam's back and it feels like he's touching a corpse, Sam's so cold. Dean bites the inside of his lip hard enough that he tastes blood.

He can't help but picture it. Sam laid out on a dingy mattress, frozen and dead and all of it Dean's fault. It didn't happen, but it feels like it is happening right now. Dean lets the pain of it wash over him and it's followed by the ring of truth, of absolute certainty that he would have sold his soul for Sam just like Sam saw. Would still do it now, if he thought there was anyone out there willing to deal. As it is, the best he can do for Sam is keep him warm for the time he has left. Before Dean lets him swan dive into the pit with Lucifer.

Dean brings his coat round behind Sam and settles it over his shoulders, smooths the leather down to the small of his back.

“Really? He’s giving you his jacket. That’s kind of romantic, don’t you think?”

That’s Sam’s voice but it didn’t come from Sam’s mouth. Dean whips around to see Sam’s reflection smirking at him from the sideview mirror. He recognizes Lucifer in the curl of Sam’s lips. He flicks his eyes back to Sam’s face and his expression is grim but unsurprised.

“Aw, Dean. Such a gentleman. Think you'll get a kiss from your girl at the end of the date?” the Devil says.

“Fuck you.” Sam and Dean say in unison. Sam snorts a laugh. Dean flashes him a tight grin, but it doesn't last long. He lets his head hang low between his shoulders for a second, floored by the idea that this might be the last time he ever hears Sam's laughter.

“That what you've been staring at this whole ride, huh? He been talking to you all this time?” Dean eases Sam back against the passenger seat, squeezes his shoulder once and lets his hand sit there, his warmth seeping into Sam.

“He's getting harder to ignore.” Sam says with a self-deprecating shrug. He's worked his arms into the coat, so Dean grabs the edges, overlapping them on Sam's chest and pats him there absently. He reaches up and snags the blanket from the roof and spreads it over Sam's lap.

“Really, it's just too sweet. Wonder what he'd do if he really knew what goes on inside that head of yours, Sammy-boy.” Sam keeps his eyes forward, doesn't acknowledge the devil, but his muscles tense under Dean's hands.

“Seriously, shut-up.” Dean snarls. He leans over Sam's knees to fish through the glove compartment for the flat-head screwdriver that lives there. He steps around the door to get at the side-view mirror and takes the blade of the screwdriver to the edge of the mirror. He pauses for a minute, whispers, “Sorry, Baby,” and sets to work. With a couple of pries, the glue that holds the mirror to the frame crackles and it pops off into Dean's waiting hand.

Dean stares down at the glass. There's no devil in it now that it isn't reflecting Sam. It is empty of everything but the heavy gray clouds and Dean's own face. Dean can’t stand the expression in his own eyes, so he shoves it into the glove compartment with the screwdriver and turns back to Sam.

“Thanks, Dean.” Sam says with a weak smile.

“Sure thing, Sammy,” Dean says tight-voiced. Because it's not like he can really save Sam from the Devil when Lucifer's already inside him. Dean tucks the edge of the blanket under Sam's thigh to keep it from getting caught in the door before he closes it. When he stands, the immediacy of taking care of Sam slips away and he's left with anger and frustration seeping up from the poisonous weight in his gut. He slams his open palm onto the roof of the Impala, furious with his impotence. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and apologizes to the Impala again even though he knows she gets it.

He walks around to the driver's side, gets in and starts the car. Sam looks young and wounded, but he's not as curled into himself as he was before. The hot air blasts a heat haze into the open space between them and it feels like looking across worlds when he meets Sam's eyes. Dean holds his gaze for a long moment, feels it sink into him a thousand little filaments taking root. All Sam would have to do is tug and Dean would follow wherever Sam leads. Already has. Sam knows, must know, but he just blinks and turns away.

Dean puts the car in gear and guides her back onto the road. It's not far now and Dean has no idea what to do to change what's coming, thinks with everything Sam's sacrificed that it might be wrong to even try.

 

...

 

Sam spots Gwen’s truck in a meadow off of Route 9 and they pull off on the dirt track and park behind her.

“Well, boys, we’re finally here,” Lilith says and pushes off from where she’s leaning against the cab. With one sharp pull, she breaks the leather thong around her neck and hands it over to Sam.

Sam looks down at the ring, the gold and silver bands shining in the dull gray light, then hands them over to Dean. He peels himself out of Dean’s jacket and tosses it back in the Impala. When he’s done, he rolls his shoulders and takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Let’s get this over with.” Sam lays the rings our on his palm and nudges them until they pull together like magnets, one in the center orbited by the other three.

Sam looks to Dean, eyes soft and shining, “Dean I-”

“Stop,” a gruff voice cuts Sam off and it’s so familiar, so instinctual to listen to it, that Dean’s body snaps to attention.

When he turns around, John Winchester is standing there, and the world goes still.

“Dad?” Dean says, taking an automatic step forward, heart caught somewhere in his throat. Sam’s hand snaps out, grabs him by the sleeve.

“That’s not Dad.”

Dean looks again and takes in the flat expression, the mannequin-like stiffness, and it makes his stomach turn. Castiel said there were other vessels. Anger surges in Dean and he rips his arm from Sam’s grip.

“Get out of my father, you son of a bitch.”

“You should be thanking me, Dean. Would you rather I left your father in Hell like Sam did?”

Dean’s face goes blank, his body freezing. Sam’s pale and shaking from keeping a grip on Lucifer, but the grim set of his face says this isn’t news to him.

“Or didn’t Sam tell you that his meddling prevented your father from escaping through the Hellgate," Michael says, fixing sharp eyes on Sam. "He remembers, you know, the gates slamming closed in his face.”

“Shut up,” Sam snaps, and then he catches Dean’s eyes, “I didn’t know that would happen. I wasn’t even sure until now.”

Sam’s face takes on a hard edge. “You should leave while you can, Michael. This isn’t going to end how you think.”

“You know I’m not going to do that,” Michael says.

“You-” Sam cuts off, clutching at his chest, grunting like he took a punch to the gut. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Sam, no.” Dean says, grabbing Sam’s shoulder.

“It’s ok,” Sam says, and eases Dean’s hands free, pushes him back a step. “I’ve got him.”

Sam closes his eyes, his breathing goes deep and steady and that same preternatural stillness settles over him. When his eyes open, they glow red.

“Michael, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s been too long,” Michael says, “but it’s finally time.”

“Is it? We don’t have to do this.” Sam’s body shudders like it’s trying to move, but that shouldn’t be possible. Dean’s heart races and he spots a new patch of rot peeking out from beneath Sam’s collar. They’re almost out of time.

“You know we do.”

“Why? Look how everything’s changed. Nothing happened like it was supposed to. Why should we kill each other for one of Dad's plans, when it’s already fallen apart. We're brothers. Let's just walk off the chessboard,” Lucifer says, earnest enough that Dean believes he’d do it.

Michael stares at him through Dad’s face. Mouth parted in a thoughtful expression both too familiar and all wrong, before the line of his mouth tightens. “I'm sorry. I can’t do that. I have my orders.”

Sam’s body shudders again, but when it settles, his eyes have softened, and the tension is gone from his jaw. Sam’s back in control.

“Bring him back,” Michael says. “We have to fight.”

“Not happening,” Sam says, shaking but solid.

“I thought you might say that.” Michael snaps his fingers and half a dozen angels surround them.

“Shit,” Lilith hisses, drawing an angel blade from behind her.

“Cas, man, anytime now,” Dean shouts and pulls out the demon blade, though he knows it’s of no use.

The meadow explodes into movement. Sam drops the rings on the ground and starts chanting. An angel jump him, grabs one arm. The chanting cuts off. Another angel makes a grab for Sam’s other arm. Lilith tackles him to the ground, swipes the blade across his belly. Guts him.

Dean ducks a swing from another angel, hits it with the demon knife. She cocks her head and strikes out again. Dean catches the blow in his chest, flies into the ground. She looms over him, ready to strike.

A whoosh, a flash of light and heat, and she explodes into fire. Dean looks up, stunned, to find Jo offering her hand to him. Dean snatches up the fallen angel blade and takes the hand up.

It’s chaotic, everything happening at once. Bobby and Ellen are lobbing molotovs, fending off the other angels. Smell of burning hair in the air. Liltih drives her blade up through an angel’s jaw, light flashing behind its eyes. Behind them, Castiel has freed Sam.

“I apologize for the delay. We stopped for supplies.”

“Holy oil,” Jo says, teeth bared in a tight smile.

“Is Gabriel coming?” Sam asks.

Castiel’s jaw tightens, “I do not know. He-”

A blast of pressure slams into them, sends them flying. Dean rolls ass over end into a rock, gasping for breath.

Michael walks through the burning grass, past Jo’s sprawled body, stepping over the smoldering husks of fallen angels.

Sam scrambles for the rings, voice trembling as he chants.

Michael flashes out and blinks back in front of Dean. He grabs Dean’s collar, hauls back and slams his fist into Dean’s face again and again. Pain explodes behind Dean’s eyes, blood dripping from his broken nose.

“Stop,” Michael commands, voice booming. He turns Dean’s dazed and battered face  for Sam to see. “Or Dean dies”

“Go, Sam,” Dean slurs, but the chanting cuts off.

Lilith takes one look at Dean dangling from Michael’s grasp and bolts.

"Lilith!" Sam calls. Lilith stops in her tracks. She's breathing so hard that Dean can see it in the rise and fall of her tense shoulders. “Please.”

"Damn it," Lilith curses, spins on her heal. She rushes past Sam with her hand raised. Dean goes flying out of Michael's grip, slams into the Impala. Before Michael can raise a hand to her, Lilith's sliding into a crouch, kicking out at Michael's shins.

Michael staggers back a step. Turns to look at her, his face twisted in disgusted fury. "You filthy bitch.”

Lilith grabs the angel blade from where Dean dropped it, rises slowly to her feet. "Go, Sam," she shouts and launches herself at Michael. She's quick as a snake strike, careful to keep Michael from touching her, advancing forward in short, quick bursts, keeping Michael's attention on her.

Sam finishes the chant and the ground cracks open where the rings fell, chunks of earth fall away into the void. A deep, hungry maw of black gapes open before Sam and Dean's stomach plummets to his feet. He pushes off the Impala, staggers forward, but he's too far away, too slow under the weight of his injuries.

Sam turns to look at him. Nods once, lips curved in something like a smile.

"It's ok Dean. It's going to be ok." Sam closes his eyes, spreads his arms wide and tips gracefully backwards.

Dean's running now, but he won’t make it in time to stop Sam. But if the hole will stay open just a second longer, he can go with him. His promise be damned. Everything slows, stretches and Sam he teeters on the edge a moment, suspended in time. Everything he is or was or ever will be, the whole of his life and Dean’s too hanging on a breath, then he's falling. Dean reaches for him, but his fingers close on empty air, the hole closes with a sucking gasp, seals up under Dean’s feet even as he lunges for it.

"No!" Michael shouts, hand on Lilith’s head, burning her out from the inside with white-hot light. Her body jerks once, twice and falls to the ground, eyes hollowed out, corpse smoking. But it's too late, even for Michael. Sam and Lucifer are swallowed. Gone. Sammy's gone.

Dean falls to his knees. Sinks his fingers into the ground that devoured Sam, and doesn't bother fighting the hot sting behind his eyes.

“No. It can't end like this. It doesn't end like this,” Michael says. He turns on Dean, eyes crazed. “This is your fault. We were supposed to fight. It's supposed to be over. Now look what you've done. You disobeyed!”

“Damn right I disobeyed,” Dean chokes out. “Lucifer asked you to walk away with him. He asked you. You're the one who followed the script written by a guy who hasn't shown his face, hasn't said one damn word to you for centuries. Your brother claws his way out of hell, is ready to give up the whole destiny crap and you turn your back on him. That's on you.”

“I didn't have a choice!”

“Bullshit!” Dean shouts.

“I'm a good son,” Michael says with all the rote conviction of a mantra. “You should understand that.”

Dean scoffs, his lip pulling into a sneer. “Yeah? Well, you should have tried being a good brother.”

“You little worm,” Michael hisses. He lifts his arm, fingers outstretched and he takes one leaden step toward Dean.

Behind Michael, Jo staggers to her feet. “Don't touch him,” she says, spitting blood on the ground.

Her hair is blood-plastered to the side of her face from the gash on her temple, but she's got one last bottle of holy oil in her hand, rag stuck in the mouth. Ellen pulls herself off the ground. She stands shoulder to shoulder with Jo, flicks open her zippo and lights the Molotov.

Cas flashes in next to Lilith's corpse, grabs the angel blade from under her body. He's got one in each hand, and he's eying Michael.

Dean doesn’t care, he doesn’t care about any of it. He steps into Michael’s space, presses forward against his hand.

“Do it, you coward,” Dean snarls.

Heat sears from Michael’s finger tips into Dean’s chest. Dean should fight, he knows he should. He made a promise. But he stares into Michael’s eyes and wonders what’s taking so long.

“Brother, wait!” A new voice breaks the tense silence and the trickster - no not the trickster, Gabriel the archangel - materializes beside him.

Michael turns on Gabriel, hand falling away from Dean’s chest. “Brother? You ran away for centuries and you call me brother, now?”

“Yeah, well. I’ve got no shame, so.” Gabriel shrugs. “Listen, there are things you should know.”

“It can wait,” Michael says and turns back to Dean. Dean has never seen his father’s face with this much anger behind it, not even when Yellow-Eyes was wearing it.

“You’re supposed to be in that hole, you know,” Gabriel says, circling into Michael’s line of sight.

“What?” Michael’s attention snaps back to Gabriel.

“In Sam’s visions, the ones he used to throw a wrench in your apocalypse plans, that’s how it ended. You won yourself a one way ticket downstairs right along with Lucifer.”

A fist clenches in the back of Dean’s shirt and he’s hauled to his feet, manhandled away from the archangels facing off and Dean flinches in surprise.

“Easy,” Bobby says, and urges Dean towards the cars. “Let’s give them some room.”

Michael pays them no mind, focused on Gabriel. “That’s not possible, that’s not how it’s written.”

“Does that really surprise you? You’re the one who threw the playbook out the window trying to make the apocalypse happen early.”

“Father-” Michael starts, but Gabriel cuts him off.

“C’mon man, I told you, there are things you should know. About Father.”

“What do you mean?” Michael demands.

“Come with me and I’ll show you.” Gabriel holds out his hand and Michael reluctantly takes it. Gabriel flicks Castiel a quick look and nods and then they’re both gone.

They did it. The Devil’s in the pit and they survived, just like Sam wanted. It’s a victory of sorts, but all Dean can feel is the gnawing hole in his chest. And he’s left staring at a world with no Sam in it and no idea how it got so big, and so empty.

 

...

 

**Middlegame**

**March 2009**

 

Sam’s hands are shaking. He can’t believe it. He stopped the last seal from breaking. It’s over. He has to call Ash, find out where Dean is. He’s got loose ends to wrap up, has to figure out how to keep Lilith on a leash without breaking their deal, but he could call. Start laying the groundwork for going back. He could hear Dean’s voice.

Something like hope is bubbling up giddy in him, and he nearly fumbles his phone pulling it from his pocket. It rings in his hand, Ash’s name flashing on the screen.

“Ash,” he answers, voice breathless, “we did it.”

“Sam, I- another seal fell.” Ash says, voice hospice soft.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Sam says, even as Alistair’s words echo in his head.

Lilith’s phone rings out shrill. Across the room Anna’s eyes slam closed, head tilting like it does when she’s tuning in to angel a radio.

“Where?” Lilith asks. She looks up and catches Sam’s eyes. “Buenos Aires and the Bering Strait.”

“It’s the angels,” Anna says, “They say the last seal is weakened, that if they break enough of the others, they can start a chain reaction.”

The bubbles in Sam’s gut burst, a poisonous froth. No. This can’t be happening.

“Sam,” Ash says, from the far end of a dark tunnel, distant and small. “There are more.”

This isn’t happening. He won. He was going home. Sam’s lungs seize and he can't breath. Doesn’t want to, anyway. His head swims and he can’t do this. He can’t.

 _Don’t look away, Sammy. You’ve got to face it, ok?_ He hears Dean’s voice in his head. He can see Dean, 14 years old, on his knees patching Sam’s hurt like always. _Don’t look away._ Sam’s lungs unclench. He sets his feet, rolls his shoulders and thumbs his phone on speaker.

“We always knew it might come to this. It’s not ideal, but we’re ready.” Sam says, he splays out their plans across the rickety wooden table.

“Lilith, get our people back on the seals. Focus on the one’s they’ve only got one shot at. If we get lucky, they won’t be able to break enough to make the last seal fail. Otherwise we can use the time.”

Lilith starts barking orders into her phone, heading for the exit. She disappears between one step and the next.

“Anna,” Sam says, “we need to figure out that tattoo and finish laying in the rest of the sigils.”

Anna squeezes Sam’s shoulder. “We’re going to need holy oil,” she says, and then she’s gone, too.

“Ash, start nudging hunters back towards the seals, but keep them away from anything too dangerous. It’s not worth loosing people if the best we can hope for is slowing things down.”

“Ok, man,” Ash says, “but what about the others? They could help.”

Sam bites the inside of his cheek. Jo and Ellen. Bobby. Dean. He pictures them sometimes, eating and laughing around a sticky diner table, or maybe in Bobby’s kitchen. If Sam’s going to do this, that’s where he needs them to stay.

“Keep them as far away from this as you can.”

Sam hangs up and the room is cast into silence. He stares at the ceiling, pushing back the flashes of the cage visions – Lucifer’s laugh and his deep-dug claws – and breathes through the panic trying to surge out of him. Stupid. So stupid to think this could end any other way.

But it’s ok. He can still do this. Play for the draw. It’s the only thing that matters now. Him in the cage and Dean topside. That’s how their story ends. Sam will make sure of it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Game Over**

**September 2009**

 

Bobby tries to convince Dean to stay for a few days after Ellen and Jo hit the road, but he can’t sit around and watch Bobby’s eyes glaze over as he stares into the middle distance.

"When Sam held me back," Bobby says one night, "I made him certain promises. Now, you don't have to stay, but don't go disappearing on me either. I'll expect to see you in two months time."

Sam and his damn promises.

When Dean finds a hunt, he goes, and he leaves the journal behind. Like Sam left him behind.

He’s two hours into Minnesota when the sick churn of his stomach that he’s been blaming on bad coffee roils over into something unbearable. He throws the car into a sharp u-turn in the middle of the road, sailing across two lanes of traffic. Horns blare, but Dean can’t hear them over the rush of blood in his ears. He makes it back to Bobby’s in an an hour and a half.

Bobby’s feet are kicked up on his desk, the journal open in his lap and a half empty bottle of scotch at his elbow that was full when Dean left. Bobby doesn’t have the glasses, so he can’t read it, but you don’t have to be able to read the words to understand it.

Beneath the layers of spellwork and coding, it still tells a story. The frantic, sloppy scrawl of the vision accounts, the heavy lines where Sam pieced together the failures of another self, the deliberateness of the timeline. Taken all together, even stripped of its meaning, it paints a picture of chaos and brilliance and isolation. It’s all there. It’s all Sam. It’s Dean’s only chance to understand and he can’t leave it behind. He needs it. He needs to understand.

Bobby sighs when he sees Dean, the way his shoulders are heaving like he ran here. He closes the book, runs a careful hand over the cover, head bowed as he breathes deep. He holds it out and Dean takes it, folds it to his chest.

Bobby looks up then, sharp, like he wants to warn Dean not to obsess, not to lose himself to this world of never will bes the way that Sam did, but they both know the promises they made to Sam and they both know that Dean can’t let go despite them.

Bobby sighs and shakes his head. “You need me to put someone else on that poltergeist?”

“I got it.” Dean says and they both ignore the strangled tightness in his voice.

 

…

 

Dean clears the Wilson’s house in two hours and gets a black eye for his troubles and a batch of half-burnt chocolate chip cookies as thanks. Dean sits on the bed in his shitty motel room and eats them straight from the container, trying not to remember the Christmas Sam baked cookies and they came out with black bottoms. They ate them anyway, nestled together in their blanket fort while watching the Grinch.

He tosses and turns for most of the night, mind drifting in and out of awareness, memories merging with dreams. He sees Sam at 5, crying because Dean wouldn't play G.I. Joes with him. Sam at 13 sewing shut a gash on Dean’s side, hands competent and strong, but too big for his body. Sam at 22, chest heaving after chasing down a ghoul, eyes alight with victory. At 18, walking out of Dean’s life for the first time, limbs long and elegant and so terrifyingly beautiful. Terrifying because of the way he made Dean’s heart race. He had forgotten that. How could he forget that? The dream twists and Dean does something he never dared in real life. Instead of watching Sam get on that California-bound bus, he hauls Sam in, presses their mouths together.

Dean sits bolt upright in bed, heart pounding a mile a minute. His palms are sweaty and his stomach flushes so hot it feels cold. Because every stage of his life is defined in relation to Sam. The chapters of his life titled for him – Sam at Stanford, Hunting with Sam. And it’s fucked up, he knows it is. He loved Sam in every way he could, and in some he didn’t realize. It’s crazy, but it’s his. And he wants it back.

He springs from the bed, _I loved him_ echoing in his head with every panting breath until he thinks he might go insane. He nearly knocks over the lamp as he scrambles for Sam’s journal.  It isn’t fair that Sam has to rot in Hell forever, that a lifetime of searching for ways to bring Sam closer ends with one long chapter of Sam is Gone. Screw Heaven for jerking them around. Screw God for doing nothing.

Dean clings to that thought. This is God’s fault, and he’s not going to get away with it. Dean flips to the back of the journal where Sam talks about an angel in Heaven called Joshua. It’s written right there, God knew everything that was happening, but he just didn’t care enough to intervene. And if Sam saw that then there must be more. There has got to be some clue in his journal, Dean only has to find it.

He spends the next two weeks in a shitty motel pouring over Sam’s journal, working through the visions and the timelines, and the margin notes. It’s like crawling inside Sam’s head. It’s a cold, logical look, because Sam didn’t write down his feelings or his fears, but Dean can read between the lines. He can see his brother in all the empty spaces, in the passages he underlines, in the priorities he chooses, and the picture it paints is beautiful and terrible and it aches right down to the core of him.

Dean’s spine fuses into a permanent curve where he hunches over the book, a bottle of whiskey by his elbow. His vertebrae turn into razor wire, sawing through his stomach from one side while a helpless anger burns a hole in it from the other. He’s emptied out and desperate for some place to lay the blame. But Sam used the emotions and the images from his visions to tie them together and make leaps of logic that Dean just can’t follow because he didn’t feel them or see them. Whatever glimpses of God Sam captured in his journal, Dean will never find them. Still, it’s another week before he stops trying.

 

...

 

Bela finds him in a graveyard 50 miles outside of Nashville. It’s six weeks since - well, just since. Dean’s backfilling a grave in the first light of dawn when she walks over from behind a sprawling willow.

Dean stops and leans on his shovel. He’s sweaty and dirty and the muscles in his shoulders and back ache. He should say something, maybe, but he doesn’t reach for his gun so he figures that’s welcome enough.

“I need the journal.” Bela stops with the half-filled grave between them. Her arms are crossed over her chest, hands tucked in against the chill air. Dressed in sharply tailored clothes with her ridiculous heels aerating the soil, she should look as in control and untouchable as always, but there’s something about the tightness around her mouth and the dull glint in her eyes that makes her look worn down. Dean knows the look. He’s carried it off and on his whole life. Mostly on these days.

“Burnt it,” Dean says and shrugs because he’s an asshole sometimes. And he’s got a hunch.

Bela’s eyes widen a fraction then narrow in on Dean’s. “Where?”

“Why do you care? It’s just ashes now.”

“There were powerful spells cast on that journal. I can recover some of the magic.” Bela shifts her weight, eyes flickering to the side and back. Dean’s never seen Bela show such an obvious tell. Bela knows the journal can’t be destroyed. That’s something even Sam didn’t know.

“What you mean is, you can recover the journal. Try again.”

Bela’s jaw tightens. “I have to know what he did with the contract on my soul. I kept up my end of the bargain. I deserve to know how long I have,” Bela snaps, the tightness around her mouth pulls into a snarl.

“You want information, it’s going to cost you. Think you can afford it?”

“I have money.”

“C’mon, seriously?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Money’s not what I had in mind. I want you to answer a couple questions for me.”

“Fine. And then I get the journal?”

“And then you get your answer,” Dean says. Bela’s eyes widen and she swallows before nodding. “The journal, the spell that protects it. Sam didn’t know you cast it, did he?”

“No, he didn’t. I knew Sam might fail and I needed a little insurance. I am not interested in ending up in hell because your brother was only fighting with half his arsenal.” Bela nods at Dean. Dean would feel flattered, but he’s still pissed about being benched himself.

“I never did figure out why the Campbells called me. After all of Sam’s careful planning, he left up to chance whether the Campbells would bring me in or not? He must have told Ash to keep them out of it. And I know Lilith didn’t do it. Never sat right.”

“Is there a question in there?” Bela snaps, tapping her foot against the dewy ground.

“It was you. You convinced them to call me in.” Dean watches her face carefully, looks for a tell, but she’s back in control and she won’t let it slip again so easily.

“The situation was out of hand. If Lucifer gained control, my soul was as good as gone.”

“Always an angle,” Dean mutters, but he feels the last of his anger toward her dissipate. He doesn’t trust her, never will, but in a way he owes her. He was there with Sam, at the end, because of her.

“Now tell me what you know about my contract.”

Dean sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “He never had it.” Bela blanches, and Dean wants to let her sweat it out, but he isn’t that big of an asshole. “He broke your contract. He didn’t take it over, just let you think he did.”

“The contract is broken?” Bela rocks back on her heels like she took a blow to the chest. “He lied to me.”

“Sucks, doesn’t it,” Dean says. “Now when you go downstairs, it’ll be because you’re a terrible person, not because some crossroads bitch upsold you to the premium Hell package when you were fourteen.”

Bela laughs, but it’s choked. “Looks like I wasn’t the only one with an angle.” Her face falls and she shudders. Her eyes are glossy and Dean can’t look at her, can’t think about what this means for her and not think about Sam. And he can’t think like that right now or he might start thinking about how she’s up here and Sam’s roasting on Lucifer’s spit. Right. Not thinking about it.

Dean turns back to the pile of dirt beside him, tossing a shovelful into the grave. “You’ve already been through the Impala looking for the journal, I assume.” Bela freezes for a moment, then shrugs a careless shoulder. “Thought so. So you saw the extra shovel back there. Why don’t you be useful for once and help me fill this in.” There’s not much he can offer her. He’s not sorry that Sam played her. He’s not sorry he threatened her. But he’s not sorry she’s alive and free either. Still, this is as ok as they will ever be.

“You must be joking.” Bela says, voice gaining strength as she spins on her heel and waves a flippant hand over her shoulder. “See you around, Dean.”

“God, I hope not,” Dean calls back and watches her disappear down the shadowed path.

 

...

 

Dean keeps the journal in his inside coat pocket. Any further and he gets twitchy. Every night he leans back against the headboard with a bottle of whiskey at his elbow and finds some new passage to read. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t want to be the Dean he reads about, but he likes the weight of it by his side. He likes that it’s a choice.

He knows he should stop. Knows he should pack the journal away and stop ripping the scab off his wound every night, but he can’t stop thinking that he’s going to find some kind of answer on the next page. He’s read it cover to cover several times over, always finding some detail he missed. He sees what Sam saw. He sees how the hits keep coming and don’t ever let up, how many times they are ripped apart, but he also sees how many times they come back together. They only win when they’re together. Why couldn’t Sam see that? He just wants to know how it all got so twisted.

He tells himself tonight will be the last night and settles in to read. His eyes are dry and aching by the time he finds it. It’s a couple of sentences and a little asterisk in the margin, but Sam figured out the moment when everything changed, traced it back to when Yellow-Eyes was hiding in Dad and a bad shot from the colt.

The visions, the power, all of it was Dean’s fault. He fell wrong, shot the demon from the wrong angle, poisoned Sam with more demon blood. It was him. He grabs the whiskey, rips off the cap and drinks until the need for air forces him to stop, and even then he can’t breathe.

That night he dreams of Sam standing over red soil on a wide plane of hardscrabble. He’s working a shovel into the ground. Cracks splinter out from his shovel and the ground shifts but Sam keeps digging deeper into the hole that will swallow him.

Dean tries to shout, to warn him, to beg him to stop, but his voice is a shriveled thing, barely passing beyond his own lips. Sam hears him anyway.

“But Dean,” Sam says, “you gave me the shovel. What did you expect me to do with it?”

He flashes Dean a tired smile and turns back to digging his grave. His shovel pierces through the soil, punctures the thin veil between Sam and the cage like it was always a breath away. Sam falls.

Dean cries out, squeezes his eyes shut, but he doesn’t wake. When he opens them, someone is standing next to him, broad shouldered with a grizzled beard and tired eyes.

“Dad,” Dean says, but John’s face is too still, too placid and inhuman. It isn’t his Dad at all. “Michael. What do you want?”

“You still have the rings,” Michael says, staring at the hole that still gapes open, sucking dirt and rocks into its starved vacuum. “You could open the cage.”

“And let them both out so you can ring the bell on apocalypse round two? Not happening,” Dean says even as his heart races at the thought, the chance to see Sam again. Lucifer and the world be damned.

“I don’t even know if that’s possible,” Michael says. “I don’t even know what’s meant to happen next.” A shelf of rock breaks with a torturous grind and falls into the black vortex, kicking up a cloud of red dust that swirls around their feet before being sucked into the hole. “If you knew they couldn’t climb out, would you do it?”

What he’s really asking, is if Dean would throw himself in with them. A crack breaks the ground between them and Dean watches it widen. He thinks about all the choices Sam made for him, all the ways he manipulated Dean. That final promise, not just to stay alive but to try to live, perhaps the worst of them all. It wasn’t fair. Dean shouldn’t have to keep it. But he thinks about everything Sam sacrificed to keep his family alive, everything he was willing to become. He thinks about Sam’s journal and the snapshot of his mind it captured.

He thinks he finally understands how responsible Sam felt for all of it. Sam was scared and alone and desperate to keep a promise some other him made to some other Dean. He wanted to save Dean and save the world, when every power out there was either working against him or had just stopped caring.

Sam rewrote the history of the world to keep a promise he didn’t even make.

“No,” Dean says, and it feels like a choice, like maybe he can forgive Sam after all, like maybe he already has. “I made him a promise.”

Michael looks at him then, his face the most human Dean has ever seen it. He looks lost.

“What will you do?” Dean asks. “You going to try again?”

“My father was going to leave me down there, after everything.” Michael shakes his head, shoots Dean a begrudging look like he didn’t mean to say that aloud. Dean does him the courtesy of looking away. “No, it’s over.”

It’s quiet for a long time as they watch the ground crumble around the hole and tumble into shadow.

“Gabriel showed me what your brother saw. There is reason to believe that Father is out there, closer than we ever thought. I’m going to find him.”

“When you do, tell him I’d like to see him. I have a few things to say,” Dean says, turning back.

Michael’s jaw goes tight, but he holds Dean’s eyes for a long moment. He nods and disappears in a flurry of wingbeats.

When Dean wakes the next morning he feels more rested than he has in weeks and he doesn’t even have a hangover. He probably has Michael to thank for that, and it makes his teeth ache from clenching. He stumbles to the bathroom, showers and brushes his teeth. He packs his duffel, leaving Sam’s journal for last.

He lays his hand across the cover, over the scrapes and dings. He flips it open to the middle, runs his fingers along the traced and retraced symbols that spell out Sam’s refrain over and over. Save Dean.

“You did it.” Dean swallows down the tightness growing in his throat, the sting behind his eyes. “But you got it wrong, Sammy. Even with that big fucking brain, you missed the message. It wasn’t ever about how bad things got, not really. It was about how we were better together.

“We were supposed to save each other.”

Dean closes the journal and slips it in the side pocket of his duffel. He doesn’t need to read it anymore.

 

…

 

**Opening**

**September 2007**

 

Sam jolts awake half on the floor with Dean’s voice calling his name and the tail end of a high-pitched whine ringing in his ears. Tangled in sweaty sheets, the ache in Sam’s knees and the throb at his temples block out any other feeling, but he knows by now that the whine was his own.

Dean races to Sam’s bed, slides to his knees. His eyes are terror bright and he paws at Sam’s face, pushes Sam’s hair back from his eyes, holds him up where his head hangs loose between his shoulders.

A hundred nights he’s woken up like this from a hundred dreams of a dark and desperate future. And every time he’s wanted to tell Dean, answer the pleading look in his brother’s eyes, lay out the ugly truth at his big brother’s feet and beg for help. To lay down his burden because he knows that Dean will shoulder it. But something stops him, every time. And now he knows why.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean says, voice breaking in the middle. “What is it. God, just tell me what it is.”

Sam’s mind races, searching for something to say to get that look off Dean’s face, but he can’t shake the overlay of the Dean from his dreams. Can’t stop himself from hearing Dean’s voice from that other world, that other future that Heaven and Hell have engineered for them. The one still barrelling towards them.

_Bloodsucking freak_

_They're gonna find a way to turn you_

_I just don't think I can trust you_

_Your very existence sucked the life out of my life_

_I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam_

_I just don’t believe in you_

_We're not stronger when we're together_

It echos in his head on a loop, caught on the thread of emotion that pulled the visions from his subconscious, the kind of loss that leaves Sam stunned, brain stuttering over the pain of it. The foundations of his world shaking apart. All of it playing over that image that has haunted him for months.

Dean in front of a white door, duffel in one hand, the devastated slump of his broad shoulders. His other hand lifting from his side to hover over the trashcan that rests against the wall, his fist clenched.

Every time he tried to tell Dean what was coming for them, he saw that image and his voice clogged up in his throat. Now he knows how it ends. The door, the duffel, the outstretched hand. A breath, a loosening of fingers, and the amulet dangles from Dean's hand. A slow drag of a moment and it falls. He throws it away.

“Sam?” Dean shakes him and Sam blinks the film from his eyes, “You with me?”

Sam nods. He’s with Dean but somehow, Dean isn’t with him. Dean gives up on him. Sam didn’t think it was possible, clinging to the idea that Dean would always be his like a selfish little brother. But Dean can give up on him, and in the future he does.

It hurts, God it cuts him open. But it’s a gift, too, because Sam understands now why he hasn’t been able to tell Dean anything, why he shuts down when he tries. Because if Dean can give up on Sam, then Sam can shield him from what’s coming. Dean won’t even have to play the game.

Heaven and Hell had the first move, had control of the board for too long, and no matter how hard Sam tried he couldn’t see a way to win. There was no way to save the world and save them both. They’re too tightly entwined. But now Sam doesn’t have to win, he just has to save Dean.

It doesn’t matter if Sam ends up in the pit if he can keep Heaven and Hell from sinking their claws into Dean and ripping him open. It’s all so clear now. The weight that’s been grinding him down ever since they killed Azazel is finally lifting.

Soon he’ll have to figure out how to disentangle himself from Dean, so that when the time comes for him to leave, Dean will want him gone. But for now, for one more day, Sam wants to be brothers. He leans into Dean as he hauls Sam up and sits him back on the edge of the bed.

Dean gets his hands on Sam’s face, tilts his head side to side looking in his eyes. Sam can’t look away, takes in the way Dean’s eyes shine in the lamplight, his lashes clumped together with sleep, the freckles that dot the bridge of his nose. Constellations to navigate by. The face of true north.

“You going to tell me about it?” Dean asks.

Sam tightens his lips and shakes his head, soaks in Dean’s attention while he still has it. He wants to stay here, like this forever, but he has work to do. Dean arches his brow, jaw clenched in frustration, but he doesn’t push.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Dean asks as his hands slide down to brace against Sam’s shoulders.

“No,” Sam says, looks into Dean’s eyes and breaks into a soft smile. “No, it’s finally getting better.”

Sam knows what he has to do now. He understands. He’s going to save Dean. Whatever it takes, whatever the cost. He’s going to save his brother.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Winner’s Circle**

**November 2009**

 

It's been a long day. Dean's been pretty good about holding it together and keeping his mind on the hunt. But now that the black dog’s been put down, he doesn't know what to do with himself. There's static in the air, the prelude to a storm. It prickles along the back of his neck. Dean turns on the weather channel to see if anything’s brewing, but the pretty redhead says there’s nothing but clear skies ahead.

Still, the feeling won't leave him. He knows he should sleep. He made Sam a promise and that means hitting the pavement and heading for Sioux Falls tomorrow. Tonight though, Dean needs to slide into the driver's seat of the Impala, and hear the familiar engine rumble. Drive with no destination in mind. When he's driving and it's dark enough and he stares straight ahead, he can almost believe that the passenger seat isn't empty.

Dean shuts off the TV and grabs his coat from the back of the garishly floral chair. He palms his car keys and heads outside. He'll come back and grab some shut eye once he feels settled in his skin again.

When he steps outside into the parking lot, it's well after midnight. The streetlights in the parking lot were on when he pulled in not an hour ago. They're all out now and the half-moon has set, casting the lot into thick shadow. Dean makes his way to the Impala at the far end of the lot where the pavement meets the treeline.

He's walking past the last row of cars, three clustered together under the burnt-out light, when his eyes adjust enough to see the figure of a man bent over the Impala's open trunk.

That someone broke into the Impala despite all the charms under her paint puts the burnt-out lights in the parking lot into a whole new context and gets Dean's hackles up. He draws his gun from his waistband and drops into a crouch beside the Toyota he was passing. He can't risk going back for his shotgun and salt rounds; he isn't about to let whatever this is out of his sight. So he takes his time, watches and waits for his eyes to finish adjusting to the dark and see what the man is after. If he's a man at all.

The lot is lit only by the thin orange glow from the motel lobby and the stars that Dean hasn't been able to look at for months. It's enough light for Dean to begin to make out meaning in the intruder's movements.

The man rifles through the trunk and lifts something out to set on the ground. It's Sam's duffel. The man is touching Sam's duffel. Casting it aside on the dirty ground. Dean's whole body goes rigid, heart clenching in his chest. Anger floods through him in a crushing wave and for a moment he sees red. Before he can think, he's crossing the lot in a low crouch.

The man has gathered a few items in his arms, and he slams the trunk closed and dumps them on top. The clank of metal rings hollow through the lot. Then he straightens up and his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the curl of his fingers at his side are all achingly familiar.

Dean's arm falls limp by his side, gun pointing uselessly at the ground. Stealth, surprise, caution fly out of his head.

“Sammy?” he whispers.

As the man turns, Dean can see the tilt of his nose and the untamed fall of his hair and Dean's heart starts beating triple time, because that's Sam. _That's Sam_.

Sam shuffles his feet, pulls at the cuff of his jacket sleeve and clears his throat, “Uh... hey, Dean.” he says, like he didn't just rise up from the pits of hell, straight out of Dean's nightmares, to appear whole and goddamn sheepish in front of him.

“Am I dreaming?” Dean asks, even though he knows he isn’t. Three strides bring him within a few feet of his brother's apparition and now Dean can see what he's gathered on the trunk of the Impala. A silver knife, a flask of holy water, a salt round. And it’s all from the Impala, so he can trust that they are real, the right tests. It’s a smart move. It’s a Sam move.

“Show me,” Dean says.

Sam starts with the holy water. He opens the flask, splashes some across the back of his hand, then takes a healthy slug for good measure. His shoulders ease a little, as if even he wasn't sure what would happen. He uses the knife to slice into the salt round, grabs a few grains out which he rolls between his pinched fingers, then presses against the soft inner skin of his lower lip then swallows. Next comes the knife.

Sam draws the blade across the back of his forearm and Dean bites back the small wounded sound that tries to work its way out of his throat. Nothing happens and it makes Dean's hands shake.

But Sam still has a grim line about his mouth. He draws his fingers through the blood on his arm and traces a symbol on the Impala's window. A triangle outside a larger circle. It's the start of the angel banishing sigil.

Dean hadn't even thought of that, that the devil might still be riding shotgun, but clearly Sam has. Sam draws in a fortifying breath and then places his bloody palm to the center of the triangle. When nothing happens again, he turns to look at Dean and releases his held breath slowly.

Relief slams into Dean so hard that he rocks on his feet, but he can’t seem to make his legs work, can’t seem to say anything, even as the hopeful look on Sam’s face dies.

“So, I’m me,” Sam says and licks his lips nervously. “I’ve had a lot of time to think. And I know I screwed up and I’m sorry. But I’m not sorry for how things turned out. I don’t know where that leaves us, but I thought maybe,” Sam trails off and grabs something from the ground. It’s a six pack of beer, and it’s so incongruously normal that it makes Dean’s head feel like it’s going to explode.

“Even if you’re still mad, and need space or whatever,” Sam says, and he circles around the far side of the car to the hood. Dean finds himself mirroring Sam on his side, drawn like a magnet. “Maybe we could sit here and have a beer, just for tonight. I can clear out tomorrow or whatever else you n–”

And that’s enough of that. Dean fists his hand in Sam’s shirt, ignores Sam’s uncertain flinch as he drops the six pack, and reels Sam in until their chests crash together and Dean can get his arms around his brother. His real, live, flesh and bone brother.

“You’re here,” Dean gasps, the reality of it finally sinking in, and presses his cheek to the side of Sam’s head, cradles the nape of Sam’s neck in his palm. “How?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says and trembles in Dean’s arms, death grip in the back of Dean’s jacket. “I just woke up in that field.”

“But you’re back. For good, right? Tell me you’re back.”

Sam burrows further into Dean’s neck. His cold nose sending shivers racing down Dean’s spine. “Soul and everything.”

Dean doesn’t want to pull away, doesn’t ever want to move. The warmth of Sam in his arms, the solidity. The smell of his skin. Dean wants to stay wrapped in it forever, but he needs to see Sam’s face.

He leans back, keeps his hands clutched at Sam’s shoulders, holding him close. “No, I mean are you really back? Because if you're back, if you’re staying, then it’s got to be different. I can’t do this again. Can’t have you pushing me out, and I don’t care why.”

Sam opens his mouth, but Dean cuts him off with a shake. “I mean it, Sam. Screw Heaven, screw Hell, and screw the world. You and me. That’s got to be endgame. For both of us.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, starlight caught liquid and trembling in the corners of his eyes. “You and me, Dean. I swear.”

“Ok,” Dean claps Sam on the shoulder, stepping back. “Ok. Then grab your gear.”

Dean watches Sam pick up his duffel and shove the salt and holy water in it, before Dean forces himself to turn back toward the room. He doesn’t look back, trying to believe that Sam is only a few steps behind.

“And don’t forget the beer.” Dean calls over his shoulder. Sam’s laugh follows him to the motel door, just like the rest of him.

 

...

 

They move through the room in patterns at once new and achingly familiar. And though Dean’s elated, he can’t figure out how they’re supposed to fit together now. His blood is pumping through him fast and strong and he feels more alive than he has since they took down Azazel. But it’s too much and his buzzing nerves and the tentative curl of Sam’s shoulders fill the room with tension thicker than demon smoke.

“How long have you been back?” Dean asks as he picks through his own duffel, not really looking for anything other than something to do.

“Twelve hours, maybe?” Sam says. “Not exactly sure. I was on the road for awhile before someone picked me up.”

Dean’s sleep shirt falls from his hand and he turns to look at Sam straight on. “Why didn’t you call me?” Dean asks, even as his mind is doing the math. Sam’s been gone for nearly two months. Twenty years in the pit. Jesus.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”

“C’mon, Sam.”

“I know, I know. I was down there for awhile and Lucifer–” Sam slumps down on the bed, rubs at the back of his neck like he does when he’s been hunched over his research for hours. “I got a little mixed up.”

He looks exhausted and unsure and something in that settles Dean. Taking care of Sam is familiar, solid ground. He’s got a checklist of ways to make Sam feel better in his head, has since Sam was a kid. Things have gone on and off that list as Sam grew up, but the greatest hits, the most basic needs remain the same. Shower, sleep, and food. And they’re all things Dean can provide.

“It’s ok, man. I’m just – it’s good that you’re back.” Dean says, and Sam smiles at Dean. It’s small, and tired, but it’s beautiful. It’s so beautiful. “You look beat man, why don’t you grab a shower and get some shuteye.”

“That sounds awesome.” Sam groans, always a sucker for a shower after a long day, and then Dean has to look away because Sam’s already ripping his shirt off over his head.

Dean busies himself with kicking off his boots and fiddling with his gear, but he can’t help the way his eye’s are drawn back to Sam as he bends over his knees to work off his own boots and socks. The tattoo on Sam’s back shifts and ripples with the sinuous movement of his muscles. Dean’s throat goes dry. He’s never seen it in person before, and he doesn’t even pretend to look away when Sam sits back up. He’s filled with a sudden desperation to see the marks Sam carved into his own chest.

But when Sam sits back up, the orange light from the lamp spills across an unbroken expanse of smooth skin. The scars are gone, Sam’s bisected anti-possession tattoo is the only mark that remains, that is until Dean catches sight of Sam’s wrists. They’re ringed in wide patches of raised, red scar tissue. Before Dean’s even thought to move, he’s kneeling between Sam’s legs with his wrists cradled in his palms.

“What happened?” Dean asks, rubbing his thumb over the raw looking skin. He turns over Sam’s wrists, examining them from all sides. The bands don’t connect, the sensitive skin over Sam’s veins still unmarked. The edges of the scar are round, like fingertips. A thumb on one side, two fingers on the other. “Is that a hand print?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, voice edged in wonder. “I told Castiel not to try, but maybe he had help. I think the handprints mean they did it right. ” Dean read about that in Sam’s journal, what happened to that other Dean when he was raised, the handprint he bore that Dean never will.

“That’s why your scars are gone,” Dean says and slides one hand up Sam’s warm chest. His blood rushes through his ears, and in a daze he watches his fingers move across Sam’s skin. His blunt nails scrape through Sam’s chest hair, and Sam sucks in a startled breath, chest rising under Dean’s palm.

Dean freezes. He’s got one hand holding Sam’s wrist, the other pressed over his heart, fingers curled into the warm skin. Sam’s pulse thunders under each hand, and when Dean catches Sam’s eyes, the hazel is a thin, shining corona around his blown-wide pupils.

They move together, Dean leaning up, Sam leaning in, until their breaths mingle. Called together by gravity and magnetism, the ebb and flow of space between them as they teeter on the edge. Tension draws tight as a wire, cutting into Dean’s ribs until he can’t stand the pull anymore. He surges up into Sam, mouth already open to taste Sam’s parted lips, to slide his tongue into Sam’s mouth.

Sam welcomes him with a groan, hand turning over in Dean’s grip until they’re holding each other’s wrists, pulse points pressed together. Sam’s other hand slides up Dean’s arm, over his shoulder to cradle the back of his head, pull him close.

Dean works his mouth against Sam’s until he finds every spot that makes Sam sigh, every angle that makes Sam surge against him, then he draws Sam’s tongue into his own mouth and shivers at the taste of him.

He’s so focused on the way their mouths fit together that he doesn’t realize he’s hard until Sam breaks the kiss, easing backward on the bed to draw Dean onto the mattress between his legs. Dean crawls up, follows Sam until his head rests on the pillows and Dean can hover over him. He looks between them, down the lengths of their bodies and sees the fraction of negative space between the bulges in their jeans. Heat rockets through him, arousal blazing along his nerves and he gasps. Dean watches the space disappear as he rolls his body against Sam’s and brings them together for the first time.

“God, Dean,” Sam gasps and presses up against him, catching Dean’s rhythm and pressing up and in, moving with Dean in a smooth counterpoint. Dean could come like this, listening to Sam’s voice all tumbled rough as he moans, grinding through their jeans. It wouldn’t even take long. But Sam’s pawing at Dean’s waistband, fingers dipping underneath to tease skin that’s never been so sensitive before, Dean’s nerves all lit up and hungry for it.

“Dean, I want,” Sam says, trailing off.

Dean noses along Sam’s jaw and back until he can bury his nose in Sam’s hair, nip at the thin skin behind his ear. “What do you want, Sammy? Tell me.”

“Want you inside,” Sam says, and spreads his legs wider beneath Dean.

Dean gasps and pulls back to stare in Sam’s eyes. They hold there for a long, still moment until Sam clamps his thighs around Dean’s hips.

A dam breaks between them and Dean’s fingers scrabble at his own belt. They separate long enough to pull off their clothes and Dean stumbles over to his bag, pawing through the side pocket until he finds the lube. When they come back together, they’re both stripped bare and shaking. Sam’s hand lands on his chest, fingers gently circling the anchoring sigil carved into Dean’s skin and then move over to tangle in the cord of his amulet.

“You’re still wearing it,” Sam says in wonder. Dean’s taken to tucking it under his shirt, close to his skin and protected, but he still wears it.

“Always will,” Dean says, and Sam curls his fist around the cord and pulls Dean down to his mouth.

They kiss deep and hungry while Dean works Sam open as gently as he can stand. Dean has to remind himself to breathe every time he adds a finger, not wanting to miss the tiny sounds each new stretch draws from the back of Sam’s throat.

When Sam grinds down against his hand, Dean pulls his fingers free, and rises up to align his hips with Sam’s. With one hand, he presses the head of his cock against Sam where he’s loose and wet and open.

Dean slides home, and Sam arches beneath him, head tossed back and body one long, flushed line. The heat, the tightness, makes Dean’s blood pound, his heart stuttering in his chest, overcome. This is the _closer_ he’s been searching for his whole life. To feel Sam vibrant and alive around him and under him, with him in every way he can be. Because he wants to be.

Dean moves then, a long, slow drag out that has Sam clutching at Dean’s sides, a helpless groan tripping from his throat as the flared head of Dean’s cock presses out against his rim. Dean pushes back in, fast, and Sam’s stomach goes concave as he curls up into Dean to bite at his shoulder. They find their rhythm, moving together in a wave that brings the pressure higher and higher between them. Dean slides one hand up under Sam’s sweaty back to clutch his shoulder in an underhand grip, hold him still for the thrust of Dean’s hips.

Sam shudders, his hands digging into Dean’s flanks, back arching. A shocked moan bursts from Sam on the next thrust and he goes rigid beneath Dean, cock flexing as he comes between them.

“Fuck,” Dean gasps, holding his angle and speed, working Sam through it until his breathy gasps take a pained edge, Sam’s body shivering from overstimulation. Dean slows, goes to withdraw, but Sam clamps his arms and legs around him, holds him close.

“No.” Sam rolls his hips and Dean’s snap forward on their own. He’s so close, but he doesn’t want to hurt Sam. “C’mon, want you to. Want to feel you.”

Dean slides his hand from Sam’s shoulder to the back of his neck, fisting a hand in his hair. He starts to move and Sam moves with him, until Dean’s pounding into him.

“Fuck, Sam, so good.”

Sam’s hands run up and down his back in firm sweeps, one sliding up to cradle the nape of his neck as he presses a kiss to Dean’s temple. And it’s too much of what Dean never knew he needed. He can’t loose it, doesn’t ever want to be without it again.

“Stay, God, just stay,” punches out of Dean as pleasure pounds through his system. Heat condenses in Dean’s gut, pulling higher and tighter until it explodes out of him, pouring into Sam as he comes, pulsing again and again.

Dean stays there, cradling Sam’s head, pressing their foreheads together, until long after their breathing evens out.

 

…

 

Dean wakes up to the dim glow of a gray dawn and an empty bed. Doubt creeps in from where it’s always waiting in the shadows of Dean’s ribs. His heart drops to the pit of his stomach. Sam’s gone. He was scared and vulnerable, all spun out and Dean jumped him. He took advantage and now Sam’s gone. His stomach roils and he sits up fast, rolling to the far side of the bed, sheets tangled around his waist and head falling into his hands.

It had felt so right last night, like they finally found a language they could both understand. The movement of their bodies cutting through all the bullshit that’s come between them over the years. But now, in the cold light of morning, Dean’s mind races with fear. If he read the situation wrong and Sam was just looking for a place to belong, desperate to do whatever it took to win Dean’s favor, how does Dean face him? How does he make it right? The thought sours his stomach and his mouth floods with saliva.

The sound of the shower doesn’t register until it cuts off, and Dean’s gut unclenches so fast he’s queasy again, but this time with relief. He doesn’t look up when the door opens, but watches through his fingers as Sam’s bare feet and and boney ankles come into view as he stops in the doorway. Dean doesn’t know what’s showing on his face. He still feels cracked open and he needs a moment to compose himself, so he lets himself hide.

Sam stays in the doorway, his eyes a heavy weight on Dean’s bent head. Sam clears his throat and shifts from foot to foot.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Sam says, voice thin and shivery.

Dean flinches and his heart starts beating faster, but he keeps his face buried in his hands. Sam clears his throat again and his voice is stronger. “I mean not at first. I kept telling myself that all I had to do was keep the last seal from breaking, and then I could- I could come home.”

Dean does look up then, sharp, and catches the self-deprecating smile that twists Sam’s lips.

“It seems stupid now, but I had this fantasy that I would come back, you’d be mad, and it would take time, but we’d work it out. Maybe a few years down the line, I’d tell you everything that happened, and you’d be mad again but we’d be ok.”

Dean’s face is a little numb and he wonders if he looks as cut open as he feels.

“But then the seals kept breaking and I knew it was over, that I was going to end up in the pit.”

“Sam,” Dean says. It’s all he can offer, voice squeezed tight in the clench of his heart.

“Just, let me finish, ok.”

Dean clenches his fists into the bedspread and nods.

“And then things started falling apart again. It was taking too long to find the rings and you showed up in that cell and even though I was terrified, I felt like I could breathe for the first time since I left. And then, at the end, when I fell, I knew what was coming. I’d seen it. But it wasn’t the pit that scared me. The only thing I could think was that I was never going to see you again.”

Sam stops, takes a deep breath and tucks his hair behind his ear, makes sure to look Dean straight in the eye.

“What I’m trying to say is, I know I made a lot of wrong choices and I know you think I cut you out of my life because I didn’t need you, but it was never like that. This is always where I wanted to come back to.” Sam shuffles his feet, flush rising in his cheeks. “And what happened last night, I don’t want you to feel like you have to do that to make me stay, ok? I’m here for as long as you’ll have me.”

 _Forever_ , Dean thinks a little wildly.

“It’s just- I’m all fucked-up over you. I always have been.” Sam’s voice cracks down the middle and Dean’s heart tries to do the same. “I felt like you should know.”

Dean’s head is reeling a little. That’s a lot of information to take in, a lot of stuff he’s going to have to think about, and plenty he’s going to have to remind Sam of, but the take home is that Sam wants to stay. And he’s just as fucked up as Dean is. So Dean tables all the rest of it and stands up, walks slow and deliberate into Sam’s space. He curls a hand in Sam’s damp t-shirt to push him back against the doorjamb.

“Jesus, kid. Don’t you know it’s the same for me? We're in this together, Sammy.” Dean says and from the way Sam’s eyelashes flutter, Dean knows Sam hears what he really means. That he wants this, whatever it is.

He uses his grip on Sam’s t-shirt to pull him down and press their lips together in a slow slide. He licks his way into Sam’s mouth, kisses him until the taste of his toothpaste fades away. When he pulls back, Sam’s eyes are glazed, but they’ve lost that haunted edge. Dean nods and smacks Sam on the ass as he worms his way into the bathroom.

“Hurry up and finish getting ready.” Dean says as he bends to turn on the shower.

“What, why?” Sam asks, blushing when Dean looks over his shoulder and catches Sam ogling his naked ass.

“Because it’s Thanksgiving, and I’ve got a promise to keep.”

 

...

 

A hearty breakfast and 400 miles later, they pull into Singer Salvage. Dean pretends not to notice the way Sam goes tense beside him as pulls up the drive and Jo’s truck comes into view. Dean pulls off to the other side and parks.

“You made me promise to do this.”

“No, I know,” Sam says and his brow furrows as he looks at the side-view mirror, “but uh, maybe we should have called first.”

Dean glances back over the front seat and sees Jo and Ellen step out beside Bobby on the front porch.

“Wait here a second,” Dean says and gets out of the car when Sam nods. He circles the car nodding at everyone assembled on the porch.

“Did you bring a date or something?” Jo teases, craning her neck to look behind him where the back of Sam’s head is visible over the seat. Not enough to recognize him by, but enough to know someone’s there.

“Not exactly.” Dean swipes a hand over his mouth, nerves a sudden riot in his gut. He doesn’t know how they will react. Jo was pissed about being lied to, Ellen was just sad, and Bobby. Well, Dean thinks he felt as guilty as Dean did. Sam was right, they should have called.

“Listen,” Dean says, “I’ve done all the tests. He’s the real deal.”

“Dean?” Bobby takes a half-step forward, clutching the rail in a death grip, his eyes locked on the car.

“Don’t freak out, ok?” Dean thumps a hand against the trunk twice, and Sam opens the door, long legs unfurling as he steps out.

“Holy shit,” Jo says.

“Hey.” Sam stuffs his hands in his pockets and, curling his shoulders in, makes himself look small. And it’s such a Sam thing, something Dean never thought he’d see again that it hits him all over that Sam’s here. He’s back.

“Well, ain’t you a sight.” Ellen’s voice is half-strangled, and her smile shakes around the edges. She comes down the stairs and pulls Sam into a crushing hug. When she lets go, Ellen startles Dean by grabbing him next, hugging tight. Dean sinks into her arms, squeezing back just as hard. They pull apart to see Jo punch Sam in the arm.

“I’m still pissed at you, but it’s damn good to see you,” she says and turns on Dean. “And you. You should have called.”

“What and miss the look on your face?” Dean says, grinning, and earns himself a punch to the arm, too.

Bobby watches the proceedings with a flat look on his face from the porch. Sam tucks his hair behind his ear and ascends the stairs with care.

“Hey Bobby,” Sam says, holding out his hand for Bobby to shake. Bobby looks at it like it’s a cursed relic, bats it to the side, and yanks him into a hug.

“You stupid, stupid boy,” Bobby says.

“I know,” Sam says and tucks his head down to rest on Bobby’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Dean’s eyes burn but he doesn’t dare look away. Bobby breaks away and clears his throat, ducking down so his hat covers his eyes.

“Still gonna need to do a shot of holy water, son. You understand.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you want,” Sam says.

“Alright,” Ellen says, clapping her hands together. “Let’s eat.”

Dinner is KFC served on Bobby’s best plates, but someone bought cranberry sauce and there’s some kind of green bean casserole that Ellen made and a pie for dessert. Sam’s smile when he sees it has Dean riding high, even when conversation is stilted and awkward.

Dean doesn’t much care about that, though. This meal was always going to be painful and strange, air thick with the absence of Sam. And now instead of mourning Sam and nursing anger that will never be resolved, they’re all too busy vacillating between being happy he’s back and wanting to have it out. Dean’s not an idiot. Sam coming back doesn’t magically fix things. Sam’s going to have to build a lot of trust, soothe a lot of hurt feelings, but he’s here to do it. And as long as that’s true. The rest can wait, and Dean is going to let himself be happy for one meal.

Dean’s never really had a sit-down Thanksgiving before. The combination of mashed potatoes, gravy, and cranberry sauce is a revelation, and he needs more.

“Pass the cranberry sauce,” Dean says around his mouthful and a glop of mashed potatoes falls from his mouth to splat on his plate. It’s loud in the silence and when he looks over, Sam is staring at him, horrified, prissy face firmly in place. Dean waggles his eyebrows at him.

“You’re disgusting,” Sam says, scandalized look breaking into a stunning smile. Dimples and everything.

“Really, really gross,” Jo agrees with a laugh, and just like that the tension is gone.

Sam shakes his head at Dean, Ellen starts talking about their last hunt, and Bobby passes Dean the cranberry sauce. Hallelujah. When they’re done eating, silence creeps back in and Sam’s knee starts juddering under the table.

“I’ll do the dishes,” Sam says, springing up from the table fast enough that his chair wobbles. He starts gathering up plates and taking them to the sink.

“Good luck with that,” Bobby snorts, raising his eyebrow at Jo. “Someone used up all the hot water this morning.”

“Oh please. You took the longest shower of all three of us,” Jo says.

“Hey, it takes hard work to look this good,” Bobby says, and Sam laughs, full-out and bright and better than catching Led Zeppelin on the radio.

“C’mon,” Ellen says to Sam, “You wash, I’ll dry.”

Jo and Bobby move into the living room, but Dean lingers in the doorway. He watches Sam move through the kitchen, filling up the sink and adding the soap. He’s a little entranced by the way his broad shoulders move under his flannel, so he catches the flinch the moment Sam’s hands touch the water.

Sam freezes, breath going thready, and Dean forces himself to wait, see what Sam does. Sam was in Hell for nearly twenty years, there’s bound to be some new cracks in his exterior. Dean can help with that, but hehas to figure out where they are first.

Sam takes a deep breath, and sticks his hands back in the water and starts scrubbing. By the time he’s finished with the first plate, he’s shaking and the plate slips from his hand to clatter against the counter.

Ellen looks over from where she’s cleaning up the table, “Sam, honey, you ok?”

Sam, nods his head, but it’s stilted and jerky. Ellen takes a tentative step towards Sam, and Dean breaks off from the doorway. He holds up a hand to stop Ellen, and she nods and backs off, slipping quietly from the room. He can hear whispered voices from the living room, but he ignores them, focuses on Sam.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean says, sliding up to Sam’s side so he can see him in his peripherals, isn’t startled when Dean lays a warm hand on his shoulder. Dean pushes enough to make him turn. Sam holds his hands out in front of him like they’re dripping blood instead of sudsy water.

“What’s going on in that gigantor brain of yours, huh kiddo?” Dean gets both hands on Sam’s shoulders and squeezes. Sam’s staring at the floor and Dean ducks his head to catch Sam’s eyes.

‘He was so cold,” Sam says, voice small and flat. Lucifer. Of course. Dean’s stomach plummets and he curses Bobby’s water heater, but he keeps smiling at Sam, soft and reassuring.

“C’mere,” he says and grabs Sam’s hands shoves them under his arms. They’re damp and frigid, making Dean’s muscles clench as he clamps his arms over them. He cups his hands around Sam’s elbows, keeping him close in his orbit.

“There. That’s better, right?” Dean asks, and shakes Sam’s arms a little. “He’s gone. He’s never going to touch you again. I won’t let him. You know that, yeah?”

“I know, I know,” Sam says, but he’s still shivering under Dean’s hands, shaking his head.

“C’mon, what is it?”

“It’s not- I don’t. Everything’s so different now. I don’t know what to do. How can I be ready if I don’t know what’s coming.” Sam says, voice getting louder and more harried, fingers digging into Dean’s side. “Dean, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

Sam’s spent so long living for the future, planning every step, anticipating every outcome that to do anything else must feel like living with blinders on. But none of that matters now. It’s a new world and Dean knows exactly how to navigate it.

“It doesn’t matter what’s coming next,” Dean says, squeezing Sam’s arms, “because we know how it ends, right.”

Sam’s eyes are wide and glossy, and at first he doesn’t get it. But after a second of staring at Dean hard, the lightbulb goes on and he gives Dean a shaky nod.

“C’mon, Sam, tell me how it ends.”

“With you and me, together.” Sam says, and his shivers trail off.

Sam curls forward in slow motion, forehead coming to rest on Dean’s shoulder, arms sliding around his back. Dean fists one hand in the back of Sam’s shirt, the other in his hair and holds him there.

“That’s right, Sammy,” Dean says, heart taking wing. “You and me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve wanted to write this story for about three years, and spent a lot of time off and on playing with the plot. I ended up throwing a lot of it out. In an effort to make it more manageable for the big bang challenge, I ended up cutting a lot of stuff, thinking to simplify the story. Only once I had commited to check-in and deadlines did I realize I was completely delusional… which lead to me writing about 15k words in two days.
> 
> I learned a lot about my writing style and what NOT to do to try and make a big bang work. It was a stressful and challenging experience.
> 
> I’ve got excerpts and backstories galore that never made the cut and I’m still not sure the story turned out how I wanted. But it’s done, and there is something to say for that. There were easily a dozen times that I convinced myself that this was a story no one would want to read, that there was nothing new in it, so I sincerely hope that you found something to enjoy. Thank you for reading.
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://alulaspeaks.tumblr.com/). And don't forget to visit the [art masterpost!](https://dreamsfromthebunker.tumblr.com/post/167348469645/armageddon-game-art-wincest-big-bang-2017)
> 
> Just for fun some things that didn’t make the cut:  
> Crowley - he had an arc. It got axed.  
> Victor Henriksen - yes he’s still alive, yes Sam recruited him, yes he and Dean are reluctant eye-rolling buddies  
> Jake - tried to kill Sam, didn’t succeed because visions, and Sam ends up convincing him to help shut the gates of hell. Way fewer demons got out thanks to his strength  
> John Winchester - Because the gates of hell closed before John could get out, he eventually broke the first seal. John is broken enough to say yes to Michael. His soul ends up in heaven, where it heals with Mary’s.


End file.
